R&I - Seven Seconds
by Fenway03
Summary: When an explosion in a restaurant shatters hearts and minds throughout Boston, Jane, Maura, and Korsak must not only identify the mastermind behind the attack but also come to terms with the loss of one of their own.
1. Prolog & Day 1

_**A/N:**__ As you might have figured out from the summary, this piece deals with a bombing in Boston and with the untimely passing of Lee Thompson Young — two issues that, sadly, have hurt real Boston and fictional Boston this year. I hadn't planned on ever writing off or even killing off Frost's character, but I changed my mind for one simple reason: They will have to deal with it on the show at the beginning of Season 5. And I would hate to see it done as a side note, like "hey, Frost moved away, here's your new partner" or something like that. Therefore, for what it's worth, here's a fleshed out version of how I would prefer the episode to unfold. Like it or hate it, ignore it or rip it apart. _

_Unfortunately, I don't have access to the R&I writers' room, so I can only take what we already know and add my own interpretation. If you somehow feel that the writers should at least remotely consider this storyline when deciding how to handle Frost's departure (with some adjustments, obviously), feel free to spread the word. :-) _

_If you're into AU or baby stories or anything like that, this isn't the story you're looking for. If you don't like a bit of angst and conflict, this isn't your story either. And if you love Shakespeare, you'll probably hate this because it's been written by a non-native speaker who's desperately trying not to butcher your language. ;-)_

_But if you dare to read it, I'd appreciate your feedback (good or bad), because some personal experience has found its way into the story and thus makes it harder for me to look at it objectively._

_**Copyright:**__ As usual, the characters belong to Tess Gerritsen and TNT. Only the story and all language errors are mine._

_Thank you in advance for reading! Updates will be posted as quickly as possible. It'll be around 30K words in total._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Prolog & Day 1**

**...**

Cold November rain was drizzling down on the city of Boston when a brawny man was anxiously pacing back and forth in a quiet alley near the waterfront at night.

Carl Henslow hated it when people made him wait. Though unexpected delays were an inherent part of his profession, after all these years, he still found it difficult to muster the necessary patience when dealing with even the slightest change of plan. He anxiously checked his watch as he stood in that dark backstreet near the harbor while waiting for his overdue client. 10:36 p.m. Just six minutes late. Certainly not much, but nevertheless, it would put him under unnecessary stress to keep all appointments with his subsequent clients. In the worst case, these six minutes could trigger a relentless domino effect and force him to jettison his meticulously planned schedule for this week's other assignments. He just hated it. And his face said as much.

Before his mind could dive deeper into the consequences of his current client's tardiness, a black sedan with dimmed lights pulled around the corner and stopped a few feet away, its motor still running. Henslow grimaced. Of course, his client would force him to walk over to his car instead of stopping right next to him, even on this damp and chilly November night. It was another power play. No more, no less. If it hadn't been for his client's surprisingly generous financial offer, Henslow would have sent him straight to hell. But the advance he had already received and the promise of three times that sum to be transferred after completion of the assignment were two arguments he simply couldn't refuse. And thus, Henslow tightened his grip around the handle of the brown briefcase he was carrying and strolled towards his client's car. Slowly. _Two can play that game,_ he smirked inside.

Once he had reached the driver's side, the window was rolled down and he handed over the briefcase.

"6 o'clock. Make sure it'll be there in time," he reminded his client of the plan. "I won't sit idle and wait forever."

"I'll do my part, you do yours," a voice from the driver's seat of the black sedan ordered. "And stay away from that surveillance camera."

"Yeah, yeah," Henslow grunted. "I'll be in touch. Always a pleasure doing business with you…"

With that, he turned around and walked away without looking back.

A few seconds later, after the driver of the sedan had watched Henslow leave in the rear-view mirror, the car's window was rolled up again and the dark vehicle drove off into the night.

* * *

Unexpected delays were also the order of the next day when several major and minor accidents throughout the city had dashed the hopes of thousands of Bostonians wishing for a smooth ride through the afternoon rush hour on their way home or to their chosen evening activities. The bumper-to-bumper traffic had almost come to a complete standstill — especially for those heading down Huntington Avenue towards Brookline, which is exactly where the blue Prius of Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was currently stuck with no exit in sight.

Patient as usual, the blonde forensic pathologist had leaned back in the driver's seat, her impeccable and wrinkle-free dress and jacket concealing the stress of the long day that had moved along as slowly as the cars surrounding her right now.

In contrast, impatience was written all over the face of Detective Jane Rizzoli, who was slouching on the passenger seat, cup of coffee in her left hand and nervously tapping against the window frame with her right.

"I should have asked your turtle for a ride," the detective grunted. "Would've been much faster than this."

The medical examiner couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Bass won't carry passengers who refuse to acknowledge that he is a tortoise."

Jane grinned at the blonde but then swiftly turned her attention to the cars in front of them as they — against all odds — began to move, or rather crawl along not unlike the aforementioned tortoise.

The brunette clung to the cover of the glove compartment in feigned discomfort. "Woah, Maura, slow down! I'm getting motion sick."

Despite her slight amusement at Jane's distinctive sense of humor, Maura rolled her eyes and wearily glanced at the detective. "Okay, you've made your point over the last twenty minutes. Are we done now?"

"Are we there yet?" Jane retorted with a mischievous wink.

"Fine, you were right, and I should have taken the route you suggested," Maura grudgingly admitted. "But this one usually allows for much more energy-efficient driving. And how could I have known that there would be an accident?"

"Really?" The detective teasingly arched her eyebrow. "The likelihood of an accident on Huntington during rush hour is 67%, and you couldn't have known?"

Maura squinted in suspicion. "You just made that up, didn't you?"

"28% of all statistics are made up," Jane explained with a straight face before pointedly sipping on her coffee. Too pointedly for the medical examiner to ignore.

"Well, technically, it's all your fault," Maura declared.

"Excuse me?" Jane was all ears.

The blonde nodded at the detective's cup. "If you hadn't forced me to stop for coffee, we would have made it through this neighborhood long before that unfortunate accident and the resulting congestion."

"Whatever…," the brunette shrugged and took another sip, then checked her watch. "I'm gonna call Frost and tell him we're late." She pressed a few buttons on the car's communication console but then sheepishly looked at Maura for help when the device refused to cooperate.

The medical examiner seized her chance. "I'll show you if you promise to stop nagging…"

Accepting the detective's hesitant smile as a yes, Maura playfully slapped Jane's hand away and pressed the correct buttons to call Frost's number. "Isn't it wonderful how enthusiastic he is about organizing the wedding reception for his mother and her partner?"

"Yeah," Jane nodded but then nervously checked her watch again. "I just wished he had chosen a restaurant closer to BPD."

"No, no, the _Il Camino_ is an excellent choice," Maura objected. "Their selection of hors d'oeuvre alone is quite exquisite. I can see why Detective Frost needs our help with picking the menu for the reception…"

After several ringtones, Frost finally answered his phone and greeted his partner over the speakers. "Hey, don't tell me — you're gonna be late?"

"Just a little," Jane quickly appeased him and grinned. "Maura desperately wanted to take a detour."

"Did you make her stop for coffee?" Frost knowingly asked.

Maura immediately leaned over. "Yes, she did—"

"Anyway…," Jane preemptively cut her off. "We'll be there in, like, fifteen minutes. Don't start tasting the food without us."

"I won't. I guess I'm gonna check out their wines until you get here," Frost decided cheerfully, but then a slightly annoyed tone filled his voice. "Uh, guess who just came in?"

"Who?" Jane and Maura asked in unison.

"Andrew Connelly," the young detective announced.

"The mayoral candidate?" Jane uneasily looked at Maura. "Don't tell me there's going to be another campaign event tonight in that restaurant…"

"Nah, he seems to be alone," Frost dispelled her worries, being quite aware of his partner's bias towards politicians. "I'll make sure we get a table far away from him."

The brunette was visibly relieved. "Okay, we'll see you in a few, alright?"

"Sure, I'll be right here," Frost said and hung up.

"Now, we just need to figure out how to actually get there…," Jane muttered and craned her neck to get a better view of the traffic jam ahead of them.

"Patience…," Maura suggested with a warm smile.

"You're so lucky I got this coffee," Jane smirked, took another sip from her cup, and leaned back in her seat.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, shortly before 6 p.m., Maura pulled her blue Prius into a lively side street in Brookline and slowed down to search for a parking spot near the exquisite Italian restaurant where they were going to meet with Detective Frost. Unfortunately, her current streak of bad luck regarding the peculiarities of Boston traffic continued and there was no empty spot in sight. She sighed and questioningly looked at Jane.

The detective shrugged. "Guess we'll have to drive back to that lot two blocks away from—" She stopped mid-sentence and pointed at a white Corvette parked a few feet away at the curb. The car's lights were turned on and its motor seemed to be running. "Over there…"

Maura closed the gap to the other vehicle and stopped her car in the middle of the street. Jane rolled down the window on her side and tried to get the attention of the Corvette's driver. When Carl Henslow finally noticed her and suspiciously eyed the two women in the car waiting next to his own, Jane nodded at his shining lights. "You gonna leave?"

Henslow indifferently shook his head and focused his attention back on the street with the restaurant in front of him.

For a few seconds, Jane just glared at the man until Maura nudged her and drew her attention to another car leaving its spot just opposite the restaurant. "Looks like we're lucky."

"Finally," Jane groaned and slid her empty coffee cup under her seat earning herself a look of horror from Maura. The brunette grinned casually. "Don't freak out — I'll get rid of it afterwards. We're already late."

As soon as the medical examiner had parked her Prius in the empty spot, the detective hurriedly got out of the car and impatiently waited for Maura to follow suit. When the blonde took her sweet time and finally appeared on the driver's side with Jane's empty cup in her hand, determined to dispose of the undesirable vermin attraction right away, Jane rolled her eyes and stomped towards the restaurant across the street. _Il Camino_, a sign said in red and green letters above the entrance. Golden light illuminated the spacious windows, and cheering and laughter was heard from inside.

"Well, I'm going in," Jane announced in Maura's direction and momentarily didn't pay any attention to the street in front of her. At the last moment, an onrushing cyclist swerved to the right and avoided the imminent collision with the detective.

"Whoops, sorry!" she called after the young man as he stopped his bike in front of the restaurant, got a brown briefcase out of his messenger bag, and disappeared inside without paying any further attention to Jane.

The brunette turned back to Maura, who had finally delivered the empty coffee cup to a trash can nearby and was now rushing towards Jane. "Gee, it's like the whole city is trying to prevent us from getting into that restaurant tonight," the detective assessed their tardiness.

"And notice how it all started with you and your coffee?" Maura teased. "Your addiction will get us into real trouble one day…"

"Would you have preferred to drive me through town while I'm uncaffeinated?" Jane asked half-jokingly as she led the way towards the restaurant.

The medical examiner pondered the question for a moment. "Well…,"

She would never finish her sentence.

All their teasing and joking, all their plans and intentions, all the normalcy of the current moment would be rendered irrelevant within the next seven seconds.

The first second…  
… was also the last for those poor souls trapped inside the restaurant across the street… the last time a regular guest would savor his favorite soup… the last time a mother would proudly look at the toddler in her arms… the last time a young couple would whisper _I love you_ into each other's ears…

The next second…  
… brought a violent end to all of their lives, to their hopes and their dreams, when the bomb in the cyclist's brown briefcase went off and triggered a sudden wave of devastating destruction that instantly raged through the restaurant's main dining hall… through the kitchen… through the windows… and through the adjacent buildings outside…

The third second…  
… mercilessly seized everybody in the restaurant's immediate vicinity… pedestrians and residents being swept off their feet by the shockwave from the explosion… the same ruthless force sending Jane and Maura flying backwards… the detective crashing at full tilt into the car behind her… the medical examiner landing heavily on the stony pavement…

The fourth second…  
… saw those who had survived the blast find themselves on the ground… covered in blood or debris or both… trying to make sense of the chaos invading their lives… but eventually giving in to the darkness and seeking refuge in the depths of their unconscious minds…

The fifth second…  
… sent one last aftershock through the restaurant now lying in ruins… flames blazing through the shattered windows… ashes and debris raining down on the scene of destruction below and covering everything and everyone in dirt and despair…

The sixth second…  
… marked the beginning of the end… the fires gradually leveling off… the last pieces of lightweight debris gently sailing down… and landing around the motionless bodies of Jane and Maura sprawled out on the ground…

The seventh second…  
… filled the devastated street with an eerie silence… the only sounds coming from the crackling of the flames… from the scattered groans of those yearning for help… and from the roaring engine of Carl Henslow's white Corvette driving away.

Just seven seconds. And nothing would ever be the same.


	2. Day 1 (cont'd)

_**A/N:**__ Thank you for the follows, favs & reviews. These are like early Christmas presents. :-)_

_(P.S. For those of you who are aware of the actual Boston mayoral election that took place in November this year – any similarities with people/events in this story are purely coincidental… most of the time… :-))_

_(P.P.S. I can't write/read without music to get me into the right mood, so if you're looking for a few songs to add to your playlist, try "Set the Fire to the Third Bar" by Snow Patrol & Martha Wainwright for this chapter.) _

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Day 1 (cont'd)**

…

Darkness.

Darkness and silence.

The quiet before the storm.

And then without warning, an overwhelming wave of sensory information washed over Jane's mind as she slowly awoke from her unconsciousness… the faint cries of people in the distance… the pungent smell of burning flesh… the metallic taste of blood in her mouth… the intense and high-pitched buzzing sound in her ears… the roughness of the stony pavement beneath her back… the stinging pain in her chest… and then the warmth of a hand tugging at her arm… tugging again and shaking her… and forcing her to open her eyes.

Jane squinted, and when her vision finally cleared, she found Maura bent over her, covered in dust and debris, worry etched across her face and blood trickling down the side of her head. The blonde seemed to call her name but her voice was drowned by the buzzing sound still filling Jane's ears.

Ignoring the ache consuming her body, the detective slowly sat up and instinctively squeezed Maura's hand to let her know that everything would be fine. But when she looked around and took in the scope of devastation and the helpless faces of all the other victims nearby, Jane realized that the word _fine_ would be banned from her vocabulary for an indefinite time.

Suddenly, she felt overcome by a subliminal fear. A fear that something else was very wrong. Breathing heavily against the broken ribs in her chest, Jane tried to piece together the fragments swirling through her head. _Why are we here? We're… We wanted to do something… We wanted… _Her eyes found the ruins of the restaurant. _Oh God. No. No!_

Before the medical examiner could hold her back, Jane let go of Maura's hand and stumbled to her feet. She staggered towards the still burning building, each faltering step accompanied by another memory pouring back into her mind. She remembered the long ride and the traffic jam. She remembered their dinner plans and the wedding. She remembered her partner.

"FROST?!" Jane cried out in despair.

One of the first uniformed officers who had begun to arrive on the scene rushed towards the brunette and stopped her from getting closer to the flames. She tried to resist his gentle grip and refused to believe what she was seeing.

"Frost?" she called out again, her voice cracking and succumbing to the pressure in her chest.

When she felt Maura's comforting hand on her shoulder, Jane gave up her resistance and let the blonde pull her away from the officer. With her eyes still fixed on the remains of the restaurant, she sank to her knees and silently cried.

_Frost…?_

* * *

Minutes later, the chaotic scene of death and destruction began its transformation into a formal scene of crime and investigation.

Police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances arrived from all directions, their sirens echoing through the night. Uniformed officers, firemen, and EMTs jumped out of their vehicles and gasped in shock at the devastation unfolding before their eyes.

Crime Scene Response Units unpacked their equipment, then began to document each and every particle of debris for their subsequent reconstruction of the fateful blast.

Shortly after the first responders, the media started their conquest of the neighborhood. TV vans came to a screeching halt, and reporters from stations big and small darted back and forth trying to find the most expressive spot for their breaking news.

"It… it seems as if a huge explosion has destroyed several buildings in this street…," a nervous greenhorn from local TV stuttered into a camera.

"Given the high level of destruction here at the scene, police expect dozens of casualties," an old-school anchorman calmly explained into another camera just a few feet away. "And according to first witness reports, mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly may be one of them. At this point, we do not know whether he was still inside the restaurant at the time of the explosion."

"Of course, this raises one hauntingly familiar question," a female reporter wondered with the zeal of a real-life Lois Lane. "Is this another terrorist attack?"

And as the media continued with their commentary and speculation, as ambulances took off with those who couldn't walk on their own, and as police gradually gained control of the scene, the dark of the night descended upon the people of Boston and merged with the darkness that had seized hold of their hearts.

* * *

Two hours later, just a few blocks away from the site of the explosion, the emergency ward at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center was crowded with people. Victims of the attack were limping inside or being wheeled in by EMTs. Physicians and nurses triaged all new arrivals and treated those whose wounds couldn't wait. Several cops rushed from gurneys to chairs to more gurneys and more chairs and recorded names, statements, tears of despair. Family members and friends anxiously searched for their loved ones and tried to get hold of a doctor or a cop or anybody in the know.

In the midst of the chaos, Maura was leaning against the nurses' desk, trying to keep her eyes open while dealing with a seemingly endless stack of paperwork. Her clothes were still dirty, partly torn at the hemlines, and covered in ash, but her face and hands had been cleaned and small patches of gauze covered the various scratches all over her skin. Ignoring the subtle tremor of her hand, she scribbled down responses to the myriad of meaningless questions that the insurance and release forms presented to her in a much too small font. When she finally reached the end of the last page, she let out a sigh and rubbed her tired eyes, then quickly glanced over the forms again before handing them to a nurse nearby.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit down for a moment?" the nurse asked with concern when she noticed the blonde's trembling hand and her overall shaken appearance.

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Maura absentmindedly assured her and grabbed a small plastic bag with pain medication waiting on the counter. Under the worried eyes of the nurse, she turned around and stumbled down the hallway, slowly making her way through dozens of people who barely registered with her mind.

At the end of the ward, she finally reached a small treatment room to her right and wearily leaned against the doorframe. Too tired to speak and too unsure of what to say, Maura just watched in silence how a young nurse in maroon scrubs finished patching up Jane, who was sitting on a gurney with her shirt taken off and her head hanging low, pressing an ice pack onto the naked skin below her bra to numb the ache of the fractured ribs in her chest. The nurse covered the grazed flesh on the heel of the brunette's left hand with a small patch, then put the tray with gauze and antiseptics away.

"If you have trouble breathing or need stronger medication, you just give us a call, okay?" the nurse warmly advised.

"Okay…," Jane quietly agreed without looking up.

As the nurse noticed Maura waiting at the door, she gave her a friendly nod and comfortingly patted Jane's arm. "Take good care of yourself, Detective."

Once the nurse had left the room, Maura hesitatingly approached the fragile frame of her friend. She leaned against the gurney and held up the plastic bag in her hand. "I got your medication… and I've taken care of the paperwork…" She glanced at Jane who didn't show any reaction and just kept staring at the floor. "Your mother is on her way, but it will take her a while to get here from Tommy's… The traffic out there must be utter chaos…"

When Jane still didn't react, Maura reached for the detective's hand, both to let Jane know that she was there and to have something to hold onto herself, to keep her knees from giving in, to make her feel less alone.

The touch of Maura's warm fingers seemed to wake the brunette from her apathy, but she still didn't look up. "He was so excited about the wedding…," Jane whispered.

"I know…," the blonde sighed, tears filling her eyes.

"Tell me we're just stuck in some really fucked-up dream…," Jane begged and finally looked at Maura with equally watery eyes.

"I could," Maura said quietly, and her heart ached at the sad gaze of the broken detective next to her. "But I would get hives…"

When the brunette let her head sink again, Maura mustered all the strength left in her tired bones and stepped in front of Jane and pulled her into a close embrace. The detective didn't resist and buried her face in the medical examiner's shoulder, her back trembling as she gave in to her tears. Maura wrapped her arms around Jane and they just leaned against each other in silence, their bodies seeking comfort from one another and their minds mourning together for Detective Frost.

* * *

Mere hours after the horrible explosion in the heart of the Brookline neighborhood, most streets had fallen quiet and dark, but the _Il Camino_ ruins were well lit by industrial-size floodlights that had been placed strategically at various spots amidst the debris. The fires had been extinguished, and the remaining firemen at the scene were now analyzing and verifying the statics of adjacent buildings — a residential complex, a private two-level parking garage with more apartments on top, and a number of small stores at street level.

Workers had begun to remove chunks of debris that had already been photographed from every angle by the CSRU techs still diligently documenting the scene. Employees from a deli just down the street were providing them with snacks, soft drinks, and coffee to help them through the night and to do their part in keeping their street, their neighborhood, their city alive.

At various spots around the scene, reporters had transformed their TV vans into makeshift mobile homes in anticipation of a long night and continued to deliver their news updates to viewers near and far. The gray-haired anchor was still among them, still speaking calmly and professionally into a camera, still extracting hard facts from the drama developing at the scene in his back.

"So far, twenty-seven people with major and minor injuries have been admitted to Beth Israel, eleven of them still in critical condition," he read from a dust-stained sheet of paper. "The number of those killed in the blast, especially in the well-frequented _Il Camino_ restaurant in this street, is expected to be between twenty and thirty. As of now, we do not have any confirmation whether mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly is among them, but we do know that Boston Police have lost one of their own — a young homicide detective who was dining in that restaurant tonight. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families and friends of the victims of this terrible and cowardly act."

A few feet away from the anchor and his cameraman, Sergeant Vince Korsak stood quietly and let his eyes wander over the devastation, his lips a thin line and his blank stare hiding the turmoil in his heart. Detective Frost had been more than a colleague, even more than a friend — he had been like his son, and now he was gone. A melancholic smile flashed over the sergeant's face as he remembered his constant banter with the young detective, their teasing and their jokes about each other's flaws, but also the deep respect they had held for one another at all times.

As Korsak watched in trance how CSRU techs in white Tyvek suits and assistants of the medical examiner's office started the grim and tedious process of recovering bodies — or what was left of them — from the scene of the blast, he was joined by Lieutenant Sean Cavanaugh, whose already small eyes had turned into tired dots of distress.

"Any news from Rizzoli and Doctor Isles?" the lieutenant asked quietly.

"Doctor Isles called a few minutes ago," Korsak informed him, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. "They're okay… given the circumstances… Jane is supposed to stay home for a few days, but Doctor Isles wants to come in tomorrow and help with the identification of the bodies. I don't think that's a good idea though…"

"Can you keep an eye on her? Make sure she doesn't bite off more than she can chew…?"

"Yeah, sure."

Cavanaugh looked at Korsak from the side and studied his face, clearly more concerned for a friend than for a colleague. "How are you holding up, Vince?"

The sergeant shook his head in uncertainty. "I always thought the Whitey Bulger years would be the worst of my career… but this…" He turned to his boss and fierce determination flamed up in his eyes. "I wanna find the sonofabitch who did this and make him regret it for the rest of his life!"

"We'll find him, Vince," the lieutenant nodded and supportively patted Korsak's back. "We'll find him."


	3. Night 1

_**A/N: **__Because waiting for updates sucks… here's another chapter right away. Suitable song for this one is "Rootless Tree" by Damien Rice… it's basically the acoustic equivalent of this chapter._

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Night 1**

**…**

At the end of the disastrous day that every Bostonian now wished to forget, shortly before midnight, Jane finally unlocked the door to her apartment and trudged inside, closely followed by Maura and Angela, who looked equally exhausted and sad. The detective didn't bother turning on the living room lights and instead headed towards the dimly lit kitchen, where she was greeted by Jo Friday wagging her tail in anticipation of someone finally filling her feeding bowl. The poor puppy had been forced to wait patiently in the apartment all night while Jane had been taken to the hospital and her dog walker had been stuck in the chaotic traffic in the city.

Maura and Angela exchanged a worried glance and watched how the detective absentmindedly ruffled the dog's fur. When Jane heaved herself up again and retrieved a large bag of dog food from the closet beneath the kitchen sink, letting out a stifled groan as the weight of the bag pulled at her ribs, Maura hurried to her side and reached for the bag.

"Wait, I'll do it," the blonde said quietly and reassuringly patted Jane's arm. "You should lie down for a while…"

"Hmm…," the detective murmured in response before getting herself a beer from the fridge and wearily disappearing towards her bedroom.

Once she had taken care of Jo Friday's food, Maura knelt down and playfully ran her fingers through the dog's fur. Moments later, the clanking of dishes and glasses being sorted into the dishwasher pulled the medical examiner from her thoughts, and she looked up to find Angela cleaning the clutter in Jane's kitchen. Even though she remembered Jane's rather amusing complaints about her mother's obsessive cleaning in the past, Maura also knew that it was Angela's motherly instinct that required a distraction from the subliminal worries that had been haunting her ever since Jane had announced her intention to join BPD. But on a day like this, no kitchen would be dirty enough to allow the Rizzoli matriarch to fully forget her fear, and thus, Maura just watched in silence as the elder woman scurried around and let the chaos in the kitchen divert her attention from the chaos in her mind.

Eventually, the medical examiner pulled herself up, leaned against the counter, and handed Angela a few of the used plates that probably had been gathering there since Jane's last meal at home. Maura tried to figure out the exact date to determine what kind of bacteria might have moved in, but given that Jane had spent most nights at her house this week, she decided it would be better not to know. She pushed another dirty plate over the counter and rubbed her tired eyes.

The Rizzoli matriarch put the remaining dishes and some dirty pots into the water-filled sink to let them soak for a while, then dropped her shoulders. "Poor Detective Frost…," she sighed. "Such a bright young man…" She turned to Maura, her eyes those of a woman who still believed in the good in man despite everything she had seen. "Why would anybody do something like this?"

The medical examiner helplessly shrugged. "It's too soon to tell."

Giving in to her motherly instincts, Angela stepped closer and thoroughly studied Maura's face. "I'm glad you're okay, honey." The elder Rizzoli woman hesitatingly caressed the blonde's arm, afraid that she might pull away just like Jane usually would when all Angela wanted was a hug. Maura nodded thankfully but then reached for a kitchen towel and began to wipe clean the counter near the stove.

"You'll tell me if you need anything, right?" Angela urged with concern.

"I'll be fine…" Maura tried to muster an assuring smile. With limited success. When running water was heard from the shower adjacent to Jane's bedroom, the medical examiner paused and looked at the Rizzoli matriarch. "But I'm worried about Jane…"

"Me, too," Angela whispered. "The last time I've seen her like this was when she was just a little girl and one of her friends had moved away. She was too young to really understand what moving away meant…" The elder Rizzoli woman's face lit up as she reminisced about her daughter. "She hid in her room for days and refused to talk to her father or me."

"Grief or separation can result in behavior that seems irrational at first," Maura explained soothingly. "But it is a natural reaction… The brain tries to hold on to familiar routines in order to avoid less preferable disruptions and risks."

"Yeah, Jane just wanted her friend back." Suddenly, Angela's face darkened. "My God, I don't even remember that other girl's name… What if we forget about Detective Frost, too?"

"We won't," Maura promised, her voice cracking at the thought of their loss.

When the sound of running water next door faded away, Angela straightened up and her motherly instincts kicked back in. "Well, I'm gonna check on her… see if she needs anything…"

As soon as the Rizzoli matriarch had left the room, Maura knelt down again and sought comfort in Jo Friday's warm fur while quietly sniffing away a tear.

* * *

Even though the hot water of her five-minute shower had washed away the dirt and soot that had darkened Jane's skin, it hadn't been able to wash away the sorrows that were now darkening her heart. And as the brunette stood in front of her bedroom mirror, already dressed in a fresh bra and a pair of casual sweatpants and about to pull a BPD T-shirt over her head, she paused and stared at the purple bruises beginning to form around her fractured ribs — external signs of the internal scars that this day would forever etch into her soul.

When Angela appeared in the doorframe and found Jane just standing there, T-shirt half over her head, she quickly stepped closer and tried to ignore the worrisome sight of her daughter's battered body. "Wait… let me help you."

"It's okay, Ma, I don't need help," Jane instantly squirmed away and pulled down the shirt herself even though her sudden protest made her flinch at the resulting sting in her chest.

Driven by the need to feel needed, Angela focused her attention on the room instead and began to pick up the dirt-stained clothes Jane had dropped on the floor.

The detective observed her from the corner of her eye and reached for her beer in frustration. She might have been able to ignore her mother's obsessive behavior on any other day, but after everything Jane had been through today, it was simply too much. "Can't you annoy somebody else tonight?" she moaned and dropped down onto her bed.

"I just want to be sure you're okay…," the Rizzoli matriarch declared.

"Well, I am," Jane grumbled and took a long draft of her beer.

Angela stuffed her daughter's clothes into a basket and then sat down next to her on the bed. "You could have died today…"

"Yeah, but I didn't. Life goes on," the brunette objected harshly.

"Jane…," the elder Rizzoli woman pleaded.

"I'm tired, Ma…," Jane sighed. "Can we _not_ make a big deal out of this? Just go back to Tommy's… T.J. will be happy to see you in the morning."

When the detective brought the bottle of beer to her mouth again and didn't show any intention to continue their conversation, Angela nodded in silence and got up. She placed a motherly kiss on Jane's head and gently rubbed her daughter's back, knowing from experience that — at least tonight — she wouldn't be able to break through the walls that Jane had erected around herself. "Get some rest, honey…," she whispered before sneaking out of the room.

Jane knew she wasn't being fair towards her mother. She knew that the Rizzoli matriarch was just following her instincts and trying to help. But she also knew that her partner's remains were buried somewhere under the rubble of the _Il Camino _ruins. And what she didn't know was how or if she would ever be able to return to BPD and face the empty desk that Frost had left behind.

Therefore, instead of running after her mother, Jane just clutched her beer in one hand and hid her face in the other. _Why couldn't he have picked another restaurant? Some place closer to BPD… or the Dirty Robber… or a fricking hot-dog stand…? Why did he have to be so damn dedicated and refuse to settle for anything but the best?_

Before her sorrows could lure her deeper into the abyss, a soft knock on the open bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts and she looked up to find Maura leaning against the frame.

"You okay?" the medical examiner asked.

"Yeah," the detective lied.

After a moment of indecision, Maura walked over and sank down on the edge of the bed next to Jane. "Angela has gone back to Tommy's…," she said quietly but then playfully nudged the brunette. "The good news is she only cleaned your kitchen this time — your living room is still the creative mess you prefer."

A faint smile played on Jane's lips as she acknowledged Maura's attempt to cheer her up.

"You want me to leave, too?" the blonde asked insecurely.

Jane shook her head. "Stay if you want…" She glanced at the medical examiner from the side and noticed her still dirty blouse. "You can pick one of my sweaters or something if you wanna get out of these clothes…"

Maura nodded thankfully. "I wish we could just forget this day…," she sighed, prompting Jane to hand her the half-empty bottle of beer. Without hesitation, Maura accepted the offer and took a long draft.

* * *

It was in the middle of the night when a repetitive dull thudding sound woke Maura from her dreamless sleep. She blinked drowsily and tried to make out her surroundings in the dark. Once her eyes had adjusted to the silver moonlight shining in through the windows, she recognized the familiar furniture of Jane's bedroom and remembered how she had barely managed to change into one of the detective's sweaters and climb into bed before exhaustion had pulled her tired mind to sleep.

Still half asleep now, she sat up, pushed back the bedcover she had been hiding under, and looked around.

"Jane…?" she asked into the darkness upon noticing the emptiness of the other half of the bed.

When there was no response but more dull thuds were breaking the silence of the night, Maura switched on the bedside lamp, rolled out of bed, and slipped into her shoes. Wrapping herself into the Red Sox World Series 2004 Champions sweater that was keeping her warm, she staggered out of the room.

As soon as she reached the end of the hallway, she found the source of the noise in the form of Jane angrily slamming her fists into the self-defense dummy that Korsak and Frost had given her as a get-well present after she had been shot — or rather, shot herself — during the siege at BPD about three years ago.

For a few moments, Maura just leaned against the wall and heavy-heartedly watched the exasperated detective take her frustration out on the helpless dummy while two empty beer bottles stood guard on the floor. Another punch with her right… Then a hook with her left… Immersed in her nightly fit of rage, Jane didn't notice the blonde standing merely six feet away.

When the medical examiner couldn't watch any longer, afraid that the brunette might do even more harm to her broken ribs, she stepped closer. "You're risking serious damage to your thorax…," she pointed out softly.

Jane briefly glanced at her from the side before sending her fist flying into the dummy once more. "I don't care."

"But I do," Maura objected.

Another punch hit the dummy with full force…

"Jane, please, stop!" the blonde begged when the detective gritted her teeth in pain.

"Just go back to bed, Maura," Jane suggested in between a strong hook with her left and another punch with her right.

The medical examiner sighed. "I can't sleep as long as you're out here making every effort to be back in the hospital by tomorrow…"

"If that's the only thing keeping you awake…," the detective muttered under her breath.

Maura squinted, feeling a certain hopelessness gripping her heart. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Jane grunted and landed another punch.

"Are you saying I'm not upset enough?" the blonde wondered in consternation. "Because I am… But I am also tired and my head hurts, and I don't know if or how I will be able to get up tomorrow and go down there and help them identify all those bodies…"

For a second, Jane stopped at the familiar sorrows that had been filling her head as well, but then her thoughts returned to the explosion and to her dead partner. And with another angry left hook, she gave back in to the rage that had driven her out of bed half an hour ago.

And slowly but steadily, Maura began to give in to her inner turmoil, too. Right after the explosion, when she had found Jane on the ground and realized that nobody would make it out of the _Il Camino_ ruins alive, she had decided to stay strong and to do anything she could to help Jane through the loss of her partner, but now that she was faced with the full intensity of the pain the bomb had inflicted upon Jane, she had to concede that maybe she wasn't strong enough after all.

"I really don't want to have to worry about your health right now," Maura pleaded with her voice quivering.

"Then don't," the detective retorted.

Another powerful punch…

Feeling her remaining strength crumble away, Maura helplessly watched how Jane flinched at the pain in her chest but refused to give in. Again and again, her fists hammered into the helpless dummy.

"Maybe I should just go…," the medical examiner surrendered.

"If that's what you want…," Jane gasped out indifferently.

Her next punch was finally enough. Not for the dummy, but certainly for Maura. Her eyes filling with tears, she stormed past the brunette, grabbed her jacket from the couch, and rushed out of the apartment without looking back.

When the door slammed shut, Jane finally let her fists sink down, leaned against the dummy, and buried her head in her right arm. With her left, she kept on hitting the dummy a little longer, each punch getting weaker and weaker until she finally gave up and held her chest in pain. Panting heavily, she stood motionless in the twilight of her apartment. Alone.


	4. Day 2

_**A/N:**__ Thanks for still following along, even if you don't like Jane's current behavior. But what's visible on the surface doesn't always reflect what's happening underneath. :-) (And "Irvine" by Kelly Clarkson couldn't be a better match for Jane's scene in this chapter – the lyrics pretty much say it all.)_

* * *

**Chapter 4 - Day 2**

**...**

The _Il Camino_ ruins lay eerily silent when the diffuse daylight of the foggy November morning took over from the bright floodlights just as the CSRU techs and firemen assigned to the early morning shift took over from those who had tirelessly worked all night at the scene. Chunks of debris were still scattered around the bare skeleton of the restaurant, and a thick layer of dust covered the cars still parked in the once lively street.

The first bodies had already been recovered, and every now and then, another bag with a victim's remains would be wheeled off to a former supermarket nearby that had been transformed into a makeshift morgue and evidence collection hall. Shelves that used to hold groceries, and toys, and an assortment of goods to enrich one's daily life would now be filled with pieces of debris, and burned wallets, and fragments of a bomb that had brought destruction and death.

Amidst the post-apocalyptic scene, Michael Welsh, the other candidate for the mayor's office, meandered through the rubble and examined the scene with the superficially worried face of a politician who recognized a perfect PR opportunity when he saw one. Slightly overdressed in his fine threads, he was closely followed by another suited man — his young campaign manager Logan Linklater — who was fending off a small crowd of journalists while at the same time making sure they'd record every word and gesture from his boss.

"How will these events affect your campaign?" one of the reporters inquired, while two photographers documented Welsh's visit to the site of the explosion.

"Will you adopt some of Mr. Connelly's campaign points to address the concerns of the many voters who have expressed their support for your opponent?" another journalist wondered.

Making sure that none of the zealous media representatives interfered with the candidate's photo opportunity, Linklater raised his hands in appeasement. "Mr. Welsh will address all of your questions in due time, but please, allow us a few days to process these terrible news. Mr. Connelly might have been our opponent in this mayoral election, but he was also a valued peer and a friend."

"Mr. Linklater here is correct," Welsh declared as he stepped closer and affirmatively put his arm around his campaign manager's shoulder. "I have always had the deepest respect for Mr. Connelly, and I am absolutely shocked by these tragic developments. My thoughts and prayers right now are with his wife and sons, not with my campaign or the upcoming election."

As Welsh continued his well rehearsed lines and the small caravan of reporters followed his every move, they passed by Lieutenant Cavanaugh, who was standing nearby and barely paid any attention to the intruders at the scene. Instead, he focused on the small gathering of workers and officers around him, who were updating him on the case and awaiting further instructions. Even though he wasn't the highest rank at the scene and had to coordinate his unit with the FBI's local anti-terror squad, Cavanaugh was determined to wave his badge into everybody's face who dared to stop him from investigating the _who_, _how_, and _why _behind the attack that had ripped one of the most promising young detectives from his team.

"Robson, get me an update from the hospital!" Cavanaugh ordered in the direction of a dark-haired patrol officer patiently waiting nearby. "Any word yet from Connelly's staff?" he then demanded to know from a female officer who was holding her phone to her ear.

"They haven't heard from him, sir," she replied. "Nobody can reach him…"

Before the lieutenant could bellow out his next orders, another uniformed officer rushed to his side, the consequences of a long, sleepless night written all over his face. "We've gone through all the surveillance videos," he blurted out. "That guy on the bike with the briefcase is still our best bet."

Cavanaugh nodded. Right after he had been informed of the explosion and overcome his initial shock, the lieutenant had rallied his troops and organized the first investigative measures during the night. They had immediately requested all surveillance videos from cameras in the proximity of the site, including those from the _Il Camino_ webcam that had been stored online, and begun to review the video material to detect potential suspects as well as to get an idea of how many patrons of the restaurant had come and gone before the fateful blast. And even though it was too soon to speculate on the motive behind the attack, a cyclist with a brown briefcase had quickly emerged as their prime suspect.

"Any success with facial rec?" Cavanaugh asked though he already knew the answer. They hadn't really caught the cyclist's face on camera, and thus, even the best facial recognition software in the world would be at a loss.

"No, but the media have been supplied with several stills and a description of the man," the tired officer said and handed the lieutenant a printout showing the cyclist with his briefcase as he was about to enter the _Il Camino _restaurant. "Maybe someone will recognize him."

"Okay." Cavanaugh studied the printout while his mind was already preparing for the long hours ahead. "How many people in the restaurant at the time of the explosion?"

"About thirty-five, give or take," the officer stated quietly. He clearly hated being the bearer of bad news. "Some could have left through the back, so we can only guess based on the video material we have. Some residents from the apartments above the restaurant are still missing, too. And there's no evidence of Connelly leaving before the explosion."

Cavanaugh nodded and pensively looked around until his eyes caught Sergeant Korsak, who had been talking to several CSRU techs a few feet away and was now hurrying towards the lieutenant.

"Techs have recovered parts of the briefcase we've seen in the surveillance videos," Korsak explained. "Looks like it did indeed hold the bomb. Classic C4 with an electronic detonator. Enough to blow up a whole building…"

"Yeah, I can see that," Cavanaugh grunted at the sight of the _Il Camino_ ruins.

For a brief moment, the two long-time colleagues just stood there and shook their heads in disbelief. Even after several hours, everything still felt surreal.

"Doctor Isles is on her way," the sergeant finally said and nodded towards the dust-covered cars across the street. "Her car's still stuck over there, so we had an officer give her a ride… since Jane's staying home…"

"Is she really?" Cavanaugh squinted. "That would be a first…"

"Yeah," Korsak gave him a worried look. "She doesn't seem to take it very well…"

Before the lieutenant could inquire further, Officer Robson returned and handed him another printout with updated information from Beth Israel. "Two of the critical patients didn't make it through the night…"

Cavanaugh nodded and silently glanced over the numbers on the sheet in his hands.

"They're also ready for your press update, sir," Robson announced and pointed towards a sea of microphones and cameras waiting nearby.

"Alright," the lieutenant straightened up and patted Korsak's back before heading over to the media representatives. "Keep me updated, Vince!"

Seconds later, all the journalists and TV reporters had whipped out their notepads and turned on their cameras in anticipation of the latest information about the fateful attack.

"First of all, my prayers are with those who have been injured or died, and with their families and friends, and with everybody affected by what I can only call an extremely cowardly and despicable act," Cavanaugh began his update. "I'd also like to thank those who have worked hard all night and who will be working tirelessly over the coming days as we're trying to find out who did this and why."

* * *

Right when Lieutenant Cavanaugh had finished his introductory statements, Jane returned from her kitchen with a new bottle of beer and sank back down onto her couch, forcing herself to watch the ad-hoc press conference on TV. Even though the mere thought of the attack tore her heart into pieces just as the bomb had torn apart the restaurant, Jane wanted to know — had to know — who was behind this act and the death of her partner. She took another long draft from her beer and leaned back, subconsciously rubbing her sore ribs.

"So far, at least fifteen people have been confirmed dead; thirty-one have been admitted to nearby hospitals for treatment," Cavanaugh continued his update. "At this point, it is almost certain that mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly has also died in the explosion. We know he entered the restaurant shortly before the attack, and neither Boston Police nor Mr. Connelly's staff and family have heard from him since last night. We will—"

"Do you think Connelly was the target of the attack?" a reporter interrupted the lieutenant's speech.

"It is too early to make any definitive statements in this regard, but we do consider it a possibility," Cavanaugh side-stepped the question. "And in order to speed up our investigation, we have put together several images from surveillance cameras as well as a description of our current key suspect. We're hoping that someone out there will recognize that man and help us bring closure to the victims' families and to the people of Boston."

As the lieutenant provided further details on the man suspected of having blown up the _Il Camino_ restaurant, the Boston TV station Jane was watching switched to split-screen mode — one half of the screen stayed with Cavanaugh's press conference, while the other showed a slideshow of several stills depicting the cyclist with his brown briefcase.

"We're looking for a man approximately twenty-five to thirty years old, Caucasian, dark hair," Cavanaugh explained. "He arrived on a high-end bicycle and appears to be a skilled rider, so maybe we're dealing with a professional cyclist, or at least an ambitious amateur. Maybe a bicycle messenger…"

When another freeze frame showed the mysterious cyclist on his bicycle in front of the restaurant right after he had swerved to avoid crashing into Jane, the brunette sat up on her couch and frowned. Up to this point, she had suppressed most memories of the seconds before and after the explosion, but the repeated images of the restaurant, of the cyclist, and of herself suddenly let loose everything she had locked away in the depths of her head. As if a dam had broken, each and every haunting detail poured back into her mind. How she had gotten out of the car. How she had waited for Maura. How she had almost bumped into that cyclist. And how all hell had broken loose a few seconds later.

After the initial wave of regained memories had passed, another wave washed over Jane's mind — one of guilt and regret. _What if I had stepped into the street a second later? What if he had crashed into me? What if he had dropped his bag… his bomb… his plan? I could have stopped him… I should have stopped him! Why didn't I stop him?_

And thus, while Cavanaugh was finishing his press conference, Jane's mind plunged deeper and deeper into the gorge of blame and despair. _Just one step closer… one second later… I could have stopped him… I could have saved you, Frost… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… _And when the TV station began to superimpose images of victims already confirmed dead and a photo of Frost filled half of the screen, all of Jane's anger and pain needed to break free again. Just a few hours earlier, her self-defense dummy had borne the brunt. This time, it was the bottle of beer still clasped in her hand.

With full force, Jane threw the bottle against the wall and smashed it to pieces. A large stain of beer on the wall… A thousand little shards of glass on the floor… And yet her pain was still as strong as before.

Startled by the noise, Jo Friday bolted into the room and immediately began to inspect the scene by licking and sniffing at the odd substance on the carpet.

"No, stop it!" Jane shouted and jumped up from the couch. "Damn it, Jo Friday, no!"

Despite her harsh words, the brunette tenderly picked up Jo Friday, cradled her furry friend in her arms, and shuffled towards the kitchen. Gasping from the sudden activity and the resulting sting in her chest, Jane placed Jo Friday in front of her feeding bowl, grabbed another beer from the fridge, and sank down next to the dog. When her thoughts returned to Frost, she washed down her sorrows with half of the beer and rested her head against the kitchen counter in her back. Absentmindedly caressing her dog's ears, Jane just stared at the ceiling and tried to hold back her tears, too consumed by her worries to notice that her phone was quietly buzzing on the couch table with Maura's caller ID desperately blinking on its display.


	5. Day 2 (cont'd)

_**A/N:**__ Trying to upload as quickly as possible before I overdose on Christmas cookies… Try "Cold Water" by Damien Rice with this chapter._

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Day 2 (cont'd)**

**…**

Just a few miles away, in front of the former supermarket that had been turned into a makeshift morgue, Maura stood in the drizzling November rain with her phone held to her ear. Even though she was dressed rather lightly — in her black scrubs with only a jacket hanging loosely over her shoulders —, it wasn't the cold outside that kept sending chills down her spine but the cold she had felt in Jane's apartment the night before. She had tried to forget about the detective's outburst, to shrug it off as one of those illogical acts borne out of grief and frustration, but now that she was about to face the bodies of those who had died in the attack, Maura was yearning for just a glimmer of warmth, for words of support, or for a comforting embrace. And thus, she anxiously pressed her phone to her ear, waiting for an answer at the other end of the line, hoping for the sound of that one voice that would pull her through. In vain.

Eventually, she hung up and let her hand sink down. Dejected. Alone.

She probably would have turned away and left everything behind if it hadn't been for Sergeant Korsak emerging from around the corner.

"Hey, Doc!" he greeted her with a warm smile — his first since he had been informed of the attack.

"Sergeant Korsak…," was all that Maura could tiredly muster in response.

"It's good to see you," Korsak beamed with relief and gave her a fatherly pat on the arm. However, as he stepped closer, he couldn't help but notice the medical examiner's fragile appearance, her pale and still scratched skin, the dark circles under her eyes. "You look exhausted though. Are you sure you wanna do this?"

"Yes. I want to help the families of the victims find closure as soon as possible," Maura declared and headed towards the building's entrance. "The only thing worse than _knowing_ your loved ones have died is _not knowing_."

"True…," Korsak sighed and followed her inside. "How's Jane?"

The sergeant's innocent question was answered with nothing but silence from the medical examiner as she worriedly glanced at Jane's number on her phone's display, her thumb itching to press the call button again.

"Doc?" Korsak pulled her from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry… what?" Maura absentmindedly looked at him, barely a shadow of her usual lively and inquisitive self.

"Something wrong with Jane?" the sergeant wondered with worry.

"No… it's…," the blonde hesitated and averted her eyes. "I haven't talked to her this morning." She checked her watch and quickened her pace.

Arching his eyebrows in curiosity, Korsak tried to keep up with the medical examiner and decided to postpone any further questions. He'd find out sooner or later anyway. He always did.

Once the two of them had passed several racks with carefully labeled pieces of debris and other evidence from the scene, they reached a large storage area of the former supermarket and entered the makeshift morgue that already held about a dozen black body bags on simple wooden tables that were once used to present carefully arranged fruits, and bargains, and seasonal specialties. But in the cold light of the fluorescent lamps, numerous empty tables still awaiting their load now served as a grim reminder of the devastating scope of the attack.

At the sight of her grisly task ahead, Maura stopped dead in her tracks and swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time that she was confronted with a large number of bodies at once, but the thought that one of her colleagues and friends was among them, that she herself could have been lying right on one of these tables, made her knees buckle and left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Before she could ponder the thought further, Sergeant Korsak had caught up with her and supportively rested his hand on her shoulder. "Frost has already been identified through his badge," he said quietly. "You won't have to do that."

"Okay," the blonde whispered as she fished a pair of nitrile gloves out of her jacket's pocket and put them on.

"Doctor Isles!" the familiar voice of Senior Criminalist Susie Chang called out from behind, prompting Maura and Korsak to turn around. "I'm so glad you're well and alive," the young scientist blurted out.

"Thank you, Susie," Maura quickly appeased her. "I'd like to get the identification process underway as soon as possible to—"

"Yes, we're ready," Susie eagerly cut her off — maybe a little too eagerly, given the circumstances, but it was her special way to tackle whatever challenge life threw in her way. She pointed at a door in the back of the hall leading to another storage area. "We've set up a lab in a large office space back there. Some equipment is still missing, but we have thermal cyclers and electron microscopes, and we've set up desks and computers to access our databases — it's enough to get started."

"There's a smaller office section next door," Korsak added. "We'll use that one to talk to the victims' relatives, collect samples, do cheek swabs for comparison testing… We'll make sure you can work uninterrupted in here…"

Maura nodded quietly and contemplatively studied the grid of tables and body bags in front of her. A handful of pathologists in black scrubs were already busy organizing and preparing the burned remains contained in those bags.

"They're categorizing the bodies based on their condition," the sergeant explained and pointed at the tables on the left that currently held the largest number of body bags. "The ones that are easiest to identify go over here. Those that will probably require some effort are put in the middle section." He nodded towards the right section of tables, some of which were already filled with bone fragments. "And over there, they'll put fragments and remains that will make it difficult to extract any DNA or other clues to help identify the victim."

"We're also expecting some colleagues from Western Mass to support us," Susie announced. "They should be arriving soon…"

"Alright," Maura tried to focus and concentrate on her task, even though her thoughts repeatedly drifted back to the previous night. "Can you—"

Before she could finish her question, Doctor Pike burst into the hall, coat hung over his shoulder, briefcase in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. "Good morning!" he exclaimed with his utterly unique lack of sensitivity. When he spotted Maura, Korsak, and Susie, he marched towards them and confidently took another sip of his coffee.

"Sergeant…," he nodded to Korsak. "I've been told my expertise is needed to help with this rather unpleasant case. Where do I get started?"

Korsak exchanged an uncertain glance with Maura, but before they could decide how to get rid of their not-so-favorite colleague, Pike raised his eyebrow and studied the blonde's tired features. "You look terrible, Doctor. I suggest you stand back and let those with the required mental capacity handle this."

Maura might have been able to successfully block out Jane's absence up to this point, but when faced with the elder pathologist's narcissism, she couldn't deny any longer that she was sorely missing the detective by her side. Whenever Pike was around and made her peek at her scalpels or any other weapon nearby that could shut him up, Jane would step in with a sarcastic retort and make sure that the old knucklehead got his come-uppance. But not today.

Noticing the medical examiner's sorrowful eyes, Sergeant Korsak tried to fill the void. "Why don't you get started with the bodies in the left section over here?" he suggested to Pike, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "We haven't been able to figure out how to identify them yet, but it should be child's play for someone with your level of expertise…"

"Very well then…," Pike agreed, clearly and visibly flattered. With a self-satisfied grin on his face, he strolled to a small break area with a coffee machine, several chairs, and a TV that would keep everybody up-to-date on the latest developments regarding the _Il Camino_ bombing.

Once he was out of earshot, Korsak leaned towards Maura. "I figured he can't do much damage to the bodies we've pretty much identified already…"

"I wouldn't be so sure about that…," the blonde replied indignantly.

The sergeant chuckled in agreement and gently led Maura towards the adjacent office section. "Come on, there's another coffee machine next door."

Remaining behind all by herself, Susie scratched her head and looked around. After a moment, she shrugged and trudged back to the ad-hoc crime lab in the back of the building.

* * *

A few hours later, Maura stood bent over one of the tables in the right section of the makeshift morgue and was carefully examining various fragmented and heavily burned bones for scars, implants, or anything else that would simplify the identification of the victim, whose likely proximity to the bomb and the extreme heat of the explosion had made the extraction of DNA almost impossible.

When several crime lab assistants and pathologists gathered in front of the TV in the break area and turned up its volume, Maura looked up in irritation, wondering what would be more important than their current task. The answer to her question presented itself right away as a close-up of the mysterious cyclist appeared on the television screen, accompanied by a bold headline at the bottom: _IDENTITY OF BOMBING SUSPECT REVEALED._

Maura frowned and let her tools sink down, then quietly walked over to the gathering and followed along as a gray-haired news anchor provided another update on the attack.

"According to Boston Police, the cyclist's sister has identified him as Frederico Buccitelli, a 27-year-old unemployed Boston native currently registered in Roxbury," the anchor explained. "Police have also confirmed that the brown briefcase he is seen carrying did indeed contain the bomb that has killed at least seventeen people and left many more injured."

A slideshow of images related to the attack filled the screen — stills of Buccitelli getting off his bicycle in front of the _Il Camino_ restaurant, of him getting the briefcase out of his bag, of the explosion, and of the ruins the blast had left behind.

"As of now, investigators don't know whether Buccitelli has managed to leave the restaurant before the explosion or whether this was a deliberate suicide mission," the anchor continued. "But while his motive is unclear, we do know that he has a long criminal record, including several arrests for assault and robbery, as well as ties to the Irish mob and its now imprisoned former boss Paddy Doyle."

At the mention of the suspect's connection to Doyle and his mob, several pairs of eyes subtly peeked at the Chief Medical Examiner, but no one dared to say out loud what everybody was thinking. Almost no one.

"Paddy Doyle — isn't he your father, Doctor Isles?" Pike asked with feigned innocence.

When Maura ignored both his question and the lump forming in her throat and instead kept her eyes fixed on the TV, Pike squinted and was barely able to contain his resentment at the fact that he had been assigned to the less challenging human remains in the left section near the TV, whereas Maura was handling the more difficult fragmented bones at the other end of the hall. "I think it is time for you to step back and allow the proper completion of this investigation," he added sardonically just as Sergeant Korsak joined the group.

"Oh, you mean like when you once examined a body on my table and almost sent important evidence to the crematory?" Maura reminded her irksome colleague of his faux-pas during a murder case at the docks a few years ago. "You single-handedly jeopardized the conviction of the actual murderer, who, despite your wild assumptions, turned out to be somebody other than Paddy Doyle."

"Well, are we sure about that?" Pike sniffed a chance to finally gain the upper hand in this ongoing feud. "You went to great lengths to conceal your relationship to that butcher, so who knows? Maybe _you_ are on Paddy Doyle's payroll, too?"

"Just shut it, Pike!" Korsak cut him off and sent him a stare at least as explosive as the fatal _Il Camino_ bomb.

While Pike grudgingly turned away with his tail between his legs and the sergeant made sure that everybody else was getting back to work as well, Maura silently withdrew and staggered back towards the grid of tables and body bags.

When her eyes caught an odd shiny object attached to one of the bags, she stepped closer to inspect it — and instantly wished she had not. A doleful sigh escaped Maura's mouth as she felt Detective Frost's golden badge in her hand.

"Are you alright?" Korsak stepped closer and worriedly studied the blonde at his side.

Maura nodded and tried to repress the gloomy images that the bag with Frost's remains conjured up in her mind, but it was a feeble attempt at best. Feeling bile rise up in her throat, she let go of Frost's badge and turned away.

"Excuse me…," she uttered agitatedly before bolting out of the hall.

For a few moments, Korsak remained behind in silence and let his fingers slide over Frost's badge. His eyelids as heavy as his heart, he heaved a sigh and gently patted the body bag. Once he had regained his composure, he straightened up and left the makeshift morgue to look after Maura.

* * *

When he couldn't find the medical examiner in any of the adjacent offices, Korsak eventually headed towards the last place he hadn't checked. As soon as he reached the restrooms, he firmly knocked on the door to announce his presence.

"Anybody in here?"

Assured by the silence he got in response that there wouldn't be any embarrassing encounters, Korsak carefully pushed the door open and peeked inside.

"Doctor Isles?"

Following his investigative instincts, the sergeant entered the restrooms and quickly found his hunch confirmed when he spotted the medical examiner in the third stall, crouched down on the floor and leaning against the open door. Judging from her red eyes, the beads of sweat glinting on her forehead, and the swoosh of the toilet flushing, Maura's sparse lunch had just made its way down the drain.

Korsak quickly grabbed some tissues from the dispenser near the sinks and knelt down next to the blonde.

"I can send for an officer to take you home…" he suggested as he nudged her and handed her the tissues.

"No, I'm fine," Maura objected weakly as she dabbed her face. "I just need a minute…"

"Or two…," Korsak tried to sound as cheerful as possible but quickly switched back to honest concern at the sight of the fragile woman in front of him. "No one would blame you if you took some time off…"

"I'm the Chief Medical Examiner," Maura pointed out. "I can't just take off during a case like this."

Still not convinced, the sergeant resorted to his go-to solution for situations of this kind. "Do you want me to call Jane?"

But while the question would usually draw a happy yes, or a smile of relief, or at least a nod of approval, it only elicited a suppressed sob from the blonde this time.

"What's wrong?" Korsak frowned.

After another sob, Maura helplessly rested her head against the stall's wall. "I think Jane's blaming me…"

The sergeant wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "For what?"

"If I… if I had picked a different route to the restaurant last night, we wouldn't have been late for our meeting with Detective Frost," the medical examiner explained quietly. "And maybe… I don't know… Maybe he'd still be alive…"

"Jane would never blame you for something like that," Korsak objected resolutely.

"Well, she does…," Maura declared.

The sergeant shook his head in disbelief. "Did she say that?"

"She didn't have to," the blonde sighed.

After a moment of silence, Maura's sobs finally subsided and she took a deep breath, though Korsak couldn't tell whether it was out of resignation or out of newly gained determination to go back to work. Either way, he knew this wasn't over. He knew he would probably have to intervene. But he also knew that it would have to wait. Thus, he simply helped her up and insecurely watched as she stumbled to the sink, sprinkled her face with cold water, and shook off her worries. At least on the surface.

"So… what are we going to do about Pike?" he wondered and smirked at the medical examiner. "I don't think anybody would mind if his body suddenly ended up in one of those bags out there…"

"Don't tempt me…," Maura warned, a faint smile playing on her lips as she headed towards Korsak waiting at the door and followed him back outside.


	6. Night 2

_**A/N: **__Thanks for still reading along. Sit down, have a scone, make yourself at home… Song for this one: "All I've ever needed" by Paul McDonald & Nikki Reed. Just because._

* * *

After a long day at the makeshift morgue that had concluded with a total of nine reliably identified victims and many more waiting their turn, the sun was beginning to set when Korsak finally arrived at Jane's apartment. He had been uncertain at first — butting in like that wasn't normally his style. And butting in like that wasn't normally something that Jane would endorse either. _Besides_, he had hoped, _maybe they have already sorted things out by now._ But as he stood outside his former partner's apartment building and noticed the blue light from the TV flickering in her windows, Korsak knew for sure that his insistent intervention would be needed this time. He sighed to himself and strolled towards the building's front door. When one of Jane's neighbors stepped outside, he fastened his pace and snuck into the building right before the door fell shut again.

Seconds later, he had climbed the few stairs to Jane's apartment and banged on her door.

"Jane? It's me, Korsak… Open up!"

When the only response he received was silence, he knocked again. And again.

"Come on, Jane, I know you're home!"

"Go away!" the brunette's husky voice grunted from inside.

Out of habit and pure curiosity, Korsak turned the door knob and — much to his surprise — found it unlocked. He smiled to himself. At least this part had been much easier than he had anticipated. Now, it was time for the second part, the harder one.

"I'm coming in whether you like it or not," he announced and opened the door without waiting for Jane's permission.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the apartment's dim light, the sergeant found Jane lying on the couch, her head turned towards the door and her eyes shooting him an angry glare that probably would have been visible even in the dark.

"Which part of 'go away' did you not understand?" she hissed in irritation.

When he simply ignored her question and came inside, the brunette grumbled, turned back to the TV, and rested her head on a small pile of saggy cushions, giving Korsak a chance to look around and to notice two things right away. First, the apartment seemed much cleaner than he had remembered. _Maybe Angela had channeled her worries after last night's events into one of her cleaning sprees…, _he mused. _Or maybe Doctor Isles' tidiness was beginning to rub off on Jane? _The latter would certainly be a good thing. The former? Not so much.

The second feature that had immediately caught Korsak's attention was the assortment of empty beer bottles scattered throughout the living area and the kitchen. He arched his eyebrows with concern, then walked over to the couch and plopped into an armchair next to Jane.

"Why don't you have a seat?" the brunette snarled into her cushions.

Most people would probably have taken off by now, but Korsak knew his former partner well enough, and thus, he chose to condone her sarcasm and to keep her company no matter how hard she would protest. For a little while, he simply joined her in staring at the images of the latest news report flashing over the muted TV. After minutes of silence, he finally leaned forward.

"I won't leave until you talk to me…," he said in a quiet but insistent voice.

"About what?" Jane muttered wearily.

"How about Frost?" the sergeant proposed.

"What's there to talk about?" the brunette asked and turned to her old partner, her eyes blazing with anger and pain. "He's dead, Korsak. And no cozy get-together over coffee will ever bring him back."

Korsak glanced at the empty bottles on the couch table. "Looks like you've switched to beer anyway…"

"So what?" she objected stubbornly and let her head sink back onto the cushions.

"I won't let you do that, Jane," he declared. "Not again."

"Why? What am I doing?" Jane asked without looking up.

"You're pushing everybody away. Just like you did after Hoyt," Korsak explained. "It didn't do you any good back then, and it won't do you any good now." Ignoring the fact that Jane was ignoring him, the sergeant was determined not to give up. "If you wanna be mean, fine, be mean to me. But Doctor Isles doesn't deserve this."

Even though Jane made every effort to appear indifferent, the subtle changes in her expression gave away that Korsak's words had hit home. And the sergeant knew it, too. "She thinks you're blaming her…," he added.

"Blaming her for what?" Jane asked, her voice much less dismissive than before.

"For everything…," Korsak said. "For being late at the restaurant, and—"

"Why would I blame her for that?" the brunette shot him an incredulous look. "It fricking saved our lives…"

"Then maybe you should tell her that instead of sulking on your couch and sending her away," the sergeant suggested and hopefully studied her face. "She's really worried, Jane…"

"And how would you know?" Jane asked in a last feeble attempt to fend him off.

"She told me after she had a little breakdown in the morgue this morning," Korsak sighed.

He clearly had Jane's attention now. "Why? What happened?" The detective heaved herself up and suppressed a quiet groan when her ribs protested against the movement.

"She saw…," the sergeant hesitated. "She saw Frost's body bag… And then Pike made some nasty remarks about Buccitelli and her being related to the mob…"

The thought of that wiped all sadness from Jane's face and replaced it with pure anger. "I swear Pike's gonna wake up one day with one of his OCD-cleaned scalpels stuck in his throat!" she threatened.

"I don't think Maura needs you to kick Pike's ass right now," Korsak quickly appeased her. "She just needs _you_, Jane." When the brunette's features softened and she leaned back with a sigh, the sergeant knew he had accomplished his mission. "Want me to drive your drunken ass over there?"

Jane sheepishly peeked at her former partner. "Would you?"

A satisfied smile playing around the corners of his mouth, Korsak stood up and stretched out his hand to help Jane up from the couch. "Come on."

* * *

Maura's exquisite Beacon Hill home lay unusually quiet and dark that night, the only sources of light being a dim lamp in the hallway and the flickering of the large flatscreen TV on the wall in the great room of the house. The medical examiner herself had sought comfort under a woolen blanket and was buried deep between the cushions on her couch, her eyes staring into the distance and her mind oblivious to the news about Frederico Buccitelli developing on her TV. Even without the numerous used Kleenex gathering on the floor, there would have been little doubt that Maura was having one of the worst nights of her life.

Just as she absentmindedly reached for a fresh tissue, a knock on the door — first shy, then firm — woke her from her apathy. When another knock followed, she heaved herself up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and wearily staggered towards the front door with the blanket still wrapped around her fragile frame.

Too tired to remember any of the lectures Jane had given her about how to behave when she was home alone at night, Maura simply opened the door — and found the very same detective leaning against the frame, wearing casual clothes and a casual smile.

"Want some company?" Jane asked apologetically and held up a cup of Maura's favorite mint-flavored ice cream.

"What are you doing here?" the medical examiner asked, a hint of hurt still resonating in her voice.

"I was…," the detective started but then noticed what Maura was wearing when her blanket slid down. "I was missing my sweater," Jane smirked approvingly and pointed at the Red Sox apparel the blonde was sporting again. "I see you've found it…"

"At least your sweater wasn't busy getting intoxicated all day," Maura sighed reproachfully but secretly rejoiced at the fact that the detective finally appeared somewhat relaxed for the very first time since the attack.

"I'm sorry, Maura…," Jane rested her head against the doorframe, her eyes asking for forgiveness in a way that words could not. When the blonde kept looking at her as if waiting for another apology, honest concern flashed over Jane's face. "I heard you kinda… tossed your cookies in the morgue today…?"

Maura nodded faintly.

"Frost would have liked that…," the brunette remembered fondly, trying to ignore the lump forming in her throat.

The medical examiner couldn't help but smile at the memory of the young homicide detective's inability to look at the dead. But at the same time, the thought of their deceased partner and friend brought the tears back to her eyes.

Determined to make up for having given Maura the cold shoulder before, Jane closed the distance to the blonde and pulled her into a warm hug.

Wrapping her arms and the blanket around the brunette such that not even another bomb could tear them apart, Maura gave in to her emotions and sobbed in the comfort of the detective's embrace.

"Hey, don't get my sweater all snotty," Jane joked and gently rubbed the blonde's back. "It's my favorite…"

Maura chuckled in between her tears, her sadness gradually giving way to relief. "Can I keep it… at least for a while?" she murmured into the detective's shoulder.

"You can keep it as long as you want," Jane promised and smiled.

* * *

The golden glow from two lamps and a few candles filled the great room in Maura's house with a cozy, warm light and kept the grim November weather at bay when Jane returned from the kitchen area with two spoons in her hand and headed towards the couch. She put the silverware next to the mint-flavored ice cream waiting on the small table and sheepishly looked at Maura between the cushions, who was wrapped up in her blanket again with her eyes absentmindedly fixed on the TV.

"Wanna watch one of your documentaries?" the brunette proposed. "About the mating rituals of the South Brazilian jungle fly… or something?"

Maura raised her eyebrow in surprise. "Are you still drunk?"

"Nah," Jane plopped down on the couch and pointed at the breaking news segment on TV. "I just wanna forget about all of this… at least for one night. Can we do that?"

Maura nodded understandingly and fumbled for the remote that was hiding somewhere between the cushions. Once her hand had gotten hold of it, she flipped through several channels until she found one that seemed to satisfy both her ever-present thirst for knowledge and the detective's wish for distraction.

"So, what are we watching?" Jane asked as she handed Maura the ice cream and a spoon and then claimed half of her blanket in return.

"It's called _Patience (After Sebald)_," the blonde explained. "It's an exploration of the writings of Winfried Georg Sebald, who was considered one of the greatest authors of our time. He had a rather dry sense of humor — you'd probably like his work…"

Jane skeptically peeked at her from the side. "It's called _Patience_…?"

"… _(After Sebald)_, yes," Maura confirmed, utterly unaware of the irony of the documentary's title.

"Okay, you need to work on your subtlety," the detective advised and comfortably snuggled up against the cushions and Maura's shoulder.

"Why? Ohh…," suddenly the medical examiner understood. "You mean because patience isn't your strong suit at all?"

"Subtlety, Maura…," Jane muttered jokingly.

The blonde leaned back in amusement and indulged in her ice cream, while Jane focused on the documentary to prove that she was capable of showing some patience after all. Well, at least she tried. But after a few minutes of the black-and-white footage combined with a rather otherworldly narrative style, the brunette had enough, reached for her spoon on the table, and began to engage in a little spoon fight for the remaining ice cream in Maura's cup.

The medical examiner rolled her eyes and eventually handed over the cup. "So patient…," she sighed teasingly.

Jane chuckled as another spoonful of ice cream found its way into her mouth. With the minty flavor still tickling her taste buds, she then paused contemplatively and turned to the woman at her side. "I'm not blaming you for anything, you know?"

Caught slightly off-guard by the sudden change in mood, Maura just looked at her with curious hazel eyes.

"I mean, if it hadn't been for your goofy insistence on taking that supposedly economical route, we wouldn't be sitting here right now," the detective pointed out.

"But maybe… if we had been there sooner…," the medical examiner mused in a somber voice. "Maybe Detective Frost would have been outside or—"

"No, Maura, he wouldn't have been outside," Jane objected. "But we… we would've been inside when that damn bomb went off. So, whatever you think I'm blaming you for, or whatever it is that you're blaming yourself for — just don't, alright? None of this is your fault."

When the blonde's hesitant nod didn't convince the detective, Jane emphatically squeezed Maura's hand. "There is _nothing_ to blame you for. And… and I'm sorry if I made you feel there was… Truth is I'm glad you're a little goofy sometimes. It's the only reason we're still alive… And even after all of this, I very much prefer to be alive… And I'm thankful that _you're_ still alive. I'm… I don't know what I would do if something happened to you…"

"I suppose you would run out of beer…," Maura pointed out quietly, a thankful smile playing on her lips.

"Definitely," Jane agreed and ruefully looked at the blonde. "Still mad at me?"

She shook her head. "I never really was…"

Reassured by the honest relief in the medical examiner's eyes, Jane tried to suppress a prankish smirk. "Good, because I'd also like to point out that, technically, it was my coffee addiction that saved our asses."

The blonde squinted at her from the side, a more confident smile now brightening up her face. "So, you admit to having an addiction problem?"

"I didn't say that," Jane objected quickly.

"Yes, you did," Maura insisted and tried to keep a straight face.

"Well, either way," the detective announced, "I think I deserve at least two weeks without you nagging me about my caffeine consumption!"

"Hmm, no, I don't think so," the medical examiner decided and quickly turned back to the TV so she wouldn't burst into laughter.

"I don't like you…," Jane pouted playfully.

"Yes, you do," Maura grinned and snagged the ice cream cup back from the detective's hand.

Jane softly punched the blonde's arm in protest before snuggling into the cushions and Maura's shoulder again.

After a few minutes of much needed rest, the buzzing sound of the detective's phone on the table interrupted the two women's moment. Drowsily, Jane reached for the device and answered the call. "Rizzoli…"

When she listened to the person at the other end of the line, her muscles stiffened and she sat up. "What, tonight?" she asked into her phone and frowned at Maura. "Well… yeah, fine, I'm on my way," she sighed a few seconds later and hung up.

"What's going on?" Maura wondered with concern.

"That was Korsak…," Jane explained. "He said Buccitelli's sister was with him and wanted to talk to me…"


	7. Night 2 (cont'd)

_**A/N: **__I've been told they also solve crimes on this show… hm, never really noticed, but fine, let's do that gumshoe thing… As usual, feedback is much appreciated (especially since I've run out of cookies and need other things to make me happy :-))._

* * *

The lobby of BPD headquarters was bustling with activity that night — a stark contrast to the relative quiet on any other given night. But this wasn't just any night. This was the night after a bomb in the heart of Boston had brutally changed the city's rhythm, including the working hours of law enforcement officials, media representatives, and all those directly or indirectly affected by the attack.

And therefore, police officers, CSRU techs, and numerous journalists were scooting back and forth on the building's ground floor, often hurriedly bumping into one another and briefly apologizing before scooting back and forth some more. Here and there, FBI agents from the local bureau rushed through the scene, leaving the numerous TV cameras barely enough time to capture the bold three-letter identification on the back of their jackets for their next news report.

In the middle of the hustle and bustle, the same overzealous female reporter from the night before stood rooted to the ground, determined to deliver her latest update to her cameraman without any interference.

"As we've reported earlier, the suspected bomber, Frederico Buccitelli, has a long criminal record and served a five-year sentence for assault and robbery until 2012," she rattled away. "The prosecution in his case was led by none other than late mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly during his appointment at Suffolk County Superior Court before his transition into politics."

The young reporter looked at a sheet of paper in her hand for dramatic effect before focusing her gaze back on the camera in front of her. "Now, we have just learned that the apartment of Buccitelli has been searched and that a suicide note has been found. In this note, he blames Connelly for his prison sentence as well as for the candidate's campaign focus on even tighter criminal laws. Given Connelly's clear lead in the polls, it appears that Buccitelli has once again returned to his mob origins and taken matters into his own hands."

Before she could continue her exclusive report, two officers bolted through the lobby and almost kicked her cameraman off his feet when they stormed by. Clearly annoyed by the interruption, the young woman wrinkled her nose and waited for him to regain his balance and point his camera back at her.

At the same moment, Jane and Maura entered the building and forced their way through the crowded lobby. Even though they had changed into fresh clothes, the scratches on their skin and the dark rings under their eyes still evinced the stressful and sleepless hours they had endured.

"I'm serious, go back home and get some sleep," the detective urged the medical examiner.

"It's alright, I'll wait. It's more economical if we take only one car," Maura quickly objected.

Jane smirked knowingly. "You just want a ride in mine because you found that rotten French fry between the seats in your rental car."

"Well, do you have any idea how many bacteria will gather on even just one fry?" the blonde interposed.

"No, and I prefer not to know," Jane declared as they made their way towards the elevator. "Can you—"

"Detective Rizzoli, Doctor Isles!" the young female reporter called out and rushed towards them. She had obviously done her homework and knew the Who's Who of BPD.

The two women of said names turned around and faced their follower.

Skipping all courtesies, the overzealous reporter shoved her microphone into Jane's face. "Can you tell us why Detective Frost was in that restaurant last night? Was he on an undercover mission?"

"You think I'd tell you if this were the case?" the detective brushed her off.

"So, that's a yes?" the newswoman pushed further.

Jane shook her head in disbelief at the reporter's wild speculation but somehow managed to keep calm. "Barry Frost was an excellent detective and a good friend. That's all you need to know," she stated and turned away, prompting the reporter to focus on Maura instead.

"And Doctor Isles, how do you feel about the fact that Buccitelli is basically a foster son of your father, Paddy Doyle?" she tried unwaveringly.

While Maura temporarily froze at the subtle accusations that she certainly didn't hear for the first time, Jane's face darkened and she glared at the media parasite. "Really?! Those are the best questions you got?"

Sensing that the detective was beginning to see certain similarities between that obnoxious reporter and her self-defense dummy at home, Maura quickly regained her composure, rebuked the reporter with a cold "no comment," and tugged Jane away towards the elevator.

"You should've whacked her over the head with her microphone to show her how you feel about her questions," Jane grunted but then noticed Maura's absentminded expression. She might have had the presence of mind to get them both away from the reporter, but her thoughts were clearly still back in the lobby with those nagging questions.

"Hey, you're not gonna let that Christiane Amanpour wannabe get to you, are you?" the brunette worried as they stepped into the elevator on their way up to the homicide unit.

"She's got a point though…," Maura admitted quietly. "Paddy Doyle is my father—"

"Sperm donor…," Jane interjected.

"And no matter what he does, even now from behind prison bars, I will always be related to it…," the medical examiner sighed.

"Come on, now you're just being ridiculous," the detective instantly rejected that notion.

"They've been calling me 'Queen of the Dead' before… I'm sure they'll come up with an even better name now…," Maura mused in frustration.

"Well, if it's any consolation, you'll always be Doctor Googlemouth to me…," Jane declared cheerfully and nudged the blonde. It was at least enough to bring a thankful smile to Maura's lips as they stepped out of the elevator and headed towards the homicide squad room.

However, when they entered the bullpen and Jane's eyes immediately fell on Frost's empty desk next to her own, she stopped dead in her tracks and gloom filled her face.

After taking a deep breath herself and vainly scanning the room for Korsak, Maura gently pushed Jane towards the hallway, trying to distract her from the depressing sight. "Come on, let's find Sergeant Korsak."

Right on cue, the sergeant emerged from one of the conference rooms and approached the two women when he spotted them. "There you are!"

"Alright, enough with the secretiveness — why are we here?" Jane greeted him.

"Not sure. She only wants to talk with you present," Korsak shrugged.

"Like I got nothing better to do than chat with the sister of the guy who killed my partner…," the detective murmured doubtfully.

"I'll wait downstairs…," Maura suggested, unsure whether she should stay or go.

"No, no, since you're here anyway, you'll join us," Jane quickly objected. "You figure out if that woman is a nutjob while I pretend to be interested in what she has to say."

Relieved that she wouldn't have to risk running into that reporter again, Maura nodded in amusement and they headed back towards the conference room.

Before they entered, Jane sheepishly peeked at the sergeant from the side. "Thanks for… you know… earlier…"

"Don't mention it," Korsak smirked. "Life's easier for everybody when you two aren't fighting."

A little embarrassed, the two women looked first at each other, then at the sergeant.

"It's not _that_ bad…," Jane wondered incredulously.

"Oh yes, it is," Korsak smiled prankfully before entering the conference room. Jane and Maura exchanged a quick chuckle and then followed him inside.

Ciara Buccitelli was already awaiting them and immediately got up from her chair at the large conference table, a glimmer of hope filling her face when she noticed Jane's badge dangling around her neck. Puffy from crying, the young woman put out her hand. "I'm Ciara Buccitelli. You must be Detective Rizzoli…"

"I am." Ignoring Ciara's outstretched hand, Jane pulled back a chair and sat down, then pointed at Maura, who took a seat next to her, while Korsak unobtrusively leaned against the door. "This is my colleague, Doctor Isles. Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Well, first of all, I'm sorry you lost your partner," Ciara began empathetically. "And I can understand why you hate me right now. I mean, you probably think it was all Rico's fault…"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Jane denied rather harshly. "We got him on tape with the bomb in his hands."

"Yes, that's what the other cops kept telling me, too. And everything fits perfectly, doesn't it?" the suspect's sister sighed in frustration. "Former criminal with ties to the mob enters a restaurant with a suspicious briefcase, and minutes later, the place blows up. Must have been his fault, right?"

"He didn't carry just _any _suspicious briefcase," Jane objected impatiently. "We _know_ it contained the bomb. So, if you have a point here, I suggest you get to it."

"None of the things my brother has been accused of are true," Ciara explained with a wavering voice. "He wasn't blaming Mr. Connelly for anything. He _knew_ he had messed up his life, and as soon as he got out of prison, he wanted to turn his life around. He… he must have been set up…"

"Sounds wonderful, but do you have a little more than just wishful thinking on your part?" Jane wondered, still not convinced that this woman was worth her time.

"Well, I… I haven't told any of the other officers because I… I wasn't sure whom I could trust," Buccitelli's sister hesitated. "But since you lost your partner, I thought, well, you would maybe—"

"Just tell me what you got," Jane cut her off, clearly not in the mood for guessing games after everything she'd been through.

"See, Rico had started his own bike messenger business because he couldn't find a job when he got out," Ciara revealed. "He screwed up his job interviews because he was dyslexic. And not just a little, I mean, he could barely read and write. And he was too ashamed about it, so he would try to cheat his way through his interviews. And when that didn't work, I helped him set up his own business."

Jane frowned and exchanged uncertain glances with Maura and Korsak. "So, you're saying someone hired him to deliver that bomb to the restaurant?"

"Yes," Ciara confirmed. "And he couldn't have written that suicide note. He would've made lots of errors in such a note, but there weren't any."

"But it's his handwriting," Korsak objected. "We've compared it to some documents from his trial."

"I admit, it did look like his handwriting, but what was written there, it… that wasn't him," the young woman emphasized.

"When people decide to commit suicide, they are often overcome by a certain clarity of mind," Maura explained. "They feel relieved and unburdened. This might have made your brother act in unfamiliar ways, including in his writing."

"No, I… I _know_ those weren't his words. And I know you think I'm just putting on rose-colored glasses," she smiled in desperation. "But even though Rico was a felon, he was also my little brother. He never lied to me. And I believed him when he said he wanted to get his shit together. You have no idea how hard it is to be the sister of a felon and—"

"I think I know what it's like," Jane objected. Of course, she knew. The young woman's words had inevitably reminded her of Tommy, her own felon baby brother. But Tommy had managed to turn his life around, so what if Rico had managed to do the same? _What if he really had been set up? What if we got the wrong guy? What if…?_ Jane knew she owed it to Frost to find out the truth.

"So, you believe me?" Ciara's voice filled with hope.

"I can't promise anything at this point," the detective declared. "But we'll look into this." She glanced at Maura and Korsak, who nodded and signaled their support.

"Thank you, that's all I'm asking," the suspect's sister sighed in relief.

"I'm sorry you lost your brother," Jane offered her sympathies and stretched out her hand as they got up.

Ciara Buccitelli thankfully shook it before they all left the room.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, in the middle of the night, Jane, Korsak and Lieutenant Cavanaugh were gathered in the intelligence center next to the homicide unit's bullpen and quietly going through footage from different cameras showing the explosion and the _Il Camino_ restaurant right before and after the blast.

"Just look how calm he is when he gets off his bike and enters the restaurant," Jane points at Frederico Buccitelli on the large screen at the wall. "I almost bumped into him just seconds before that. I mean, even if he wanted to commit suicide — wouldn't he at least stop for a moment and, you know, look around one last time or something?"

"Well, like Doctor Isles said, once someone decides to commit suicide, they don't really care about anything any longer," Korsak remembered. "Maybe the guy popped a few pills and was already zoned out… who knows…"

"But she's got a point," Cavanaugh interjected. "Everything does fit rather nicely. We got the suspect, the suicide note, some clear video footage — as if we're not supposed to look any further. But we—"

When the lieutenant's phone interrupted his thought, he glanced at its display and rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I gotta take this. The mayor has been breathing down my neck all night," he grumbled and nodded to his two colleagues. "Look into this and keep me updated."

Once Cavanaugh had left the BRIC, Jane plopped down into the chair next to Korsak and rubbed her tired eyes.

"Even if it turns out to be nothing — we owe it to Frost to make sure we get the right guy," the brunette declared.

Korsak pensively stared at his computer. "Too bad we don't have any footage from inside the restaurant."

"Well, let's just assume for a moment that Buccitelli has been set up," Jane pondered the thought. "Then someone must have been watching from somewhere in this street. The bomb went off right after he entered the restaurant — with a time fuze, it could've gone off too soon or too late. Then the whole plan would've fallen apart."

"True," Korsak agreed. "But the scene was too messy for our CSRUs to determine what kind of trigger has been used."

"Do we have any other videos?" Jane wondered. "Some other angles on the street?"

"Yes, hold on," the sergeant confirmed and browsed through different multimedia folders on his computer. What he lacked in speed and computer skills in comparison to Detective Frost he clearly compensated with zeal and determination. "We've received several cell phone videos from witnesses…"

Various short clips — some blurred and shaky, others sharp and steady — played on the big screen until Jane suddenly rose from her seat.

"Stop right there!" she demanded at the sight of a man in a white Corvette accidentally looking directly into a bystander's camera as he drove his car away from the scene. "Why do I know this guy?" The brunette massaged her temples, trying to think clearly despite her lingering headache from the explosion.

"That's the man who didn't want to give up his parking spot," Maura announced from behind when she returned to the BRIC with some sandwiches and three cups of steaming coffee in her hands. "We stopped, and you asked him whether he was going to leave…" the medical examiner tried to refresh the detective's fragmented memories.

And slowly, the memory came back to Jane. "Yeah… you're right. And I thought it was odd that he was just blocking the space with his lights on and his motor running…"

"Which is a rather pollutive habit… Not to mention the cost of wasted gas and unnecessary wear of the combustion engine…," Maura interjected automatically and earned herself an amused glance from Jane.

"And why would he drive away right after the explosion as if nothing happened? Can we find out who this guy is?" the brunette wondered and habitually turned around. "Frost, can you—"

Jane stopped mid-sentence when Frost's empty chair painfully reminded her of his absence. Maura and Korsak hung their heads as well, and a moment of silence filled the BRIC.

Eventually, the sergeant cleared his throat and pulled his keyboard closer.

"I'll run him through facial rec…," Korsak said, and Jane nodded quietly before sitting back down to wait for his results. Maura slid onto the chair next to her and nudged her with one of the sandwiches. The brunette absentmindedly accepted the offer and took a bite, her thoughts still circling around her former partner and her appetite being virtually non-existent.

"Got him," the sergeant announced and pulled up a mug shot on the large screen in front of them. "Carl Henslow," Korsak read from his data just as Lieutenant Cavanaugh joined them again in the BRIC. "Has a long record… robbery, assault, unauthorized possession of explosives,… and forgery."

"Huh… I guess, he'd know how to fake a suicide note," Jane mused.

"And what do you say, he spent several years in the same prison as Buccitelli…," Korsak continued as he browsed through his files. "Both of them were involved in a prison fight that got Henslow an extension of his sentence…"

"This would appear to be a good motive to take revenge on him…," Maura concluded.

"But judging from Henslow's record, he's not the kinda guy who blows up a restaurant for nothing," the sergeant pointed out.

"Right," Jane agreed. "He's the guy you'd look up on your local Craigslist for mobsters if you need some dirty work done."

"And who would benefit most from Connelly's death?" Korsak asked even though they all knew the answer.

"Michael Welsh…," Jane nodded and uneasily looked at Cavanaugh.

"You think Welsh tried to get rid of his opponent?" the lieutenant asked, and his face darkened at the thought of the repercussions this would entail.

The brunette shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first campaign to turn a little dirtier than usual…"

"Okay, let's keep this under wraps for now," Cavanaugh decided. "Find me that Henslow guy first before we stir up a hornet's nest here. I'll keep the mayor and the press at bay as long as I can to give you a head start."

"I'll talk to my CIs to track down Henslow," Korsak announced. "The military tightly guards its supplies of C4, so he must have gotten it from somewhere else."

Noticing the first glimpses of sunrise, Jane checked her watch. "I'll head over to Connelly's headquarters. I wanna know why he was in that restaurant… Maybe we find a connection to Welsh or whoever is behind this…"

"Alright," Lieutenant Cavanaugh agreed before he and Sergeant Korsak left the intelligence center.

"I guess I'll continue with the identification of the bodies…," Maura decided rather dolefully as she grabbed the rest of her sandwich and got up.

On their way out, the detective pulled the medical examiner aside. "If you need a break or something, just call, alright?"

"I will," Maura nodded thankfully. "And you try not to get any more of your ribs broken…"

"I will," Jane smiled as they headed out of the BRIC.


	8. Day 3

_**A/N: **As usual, thanks for still reading. Let's have some fun with bad guys._

* * *

A little less than two hours later, after she had dropped Maura off at the makeshift morgue, Jane arrived at the Back Bay headquarters of late mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly. The spacious ground-floor office was quiet and mostly deserted. A few flags and leaflets scattered on tables and pinned to walls were gloomy reminders of the team's promising lead in the polls. Only a handful of people were still manning the desks, and cleaning up, and handling the untimely ending of their campaign.

When Jane stopped in the lobby and studied one of the posters with Connelly smiling and promising a safer Boston, a young man in a suit but with his tie hanging loosely around his neck approached her. "Detective…?"

"Rizzoli, yes. We've talked on the phone," Jane confirmed as they shook hands.

"I'm Dan Jones, Mr. Connelly's campaign manager," he introduced himself and led her towards a secluded office area in the back.

"I'm sorry your campaign ended like this," the brunette said. "And I'm sure you have a lot on your plate right now, but we need to check a few details—"

"No, no, I understand," Jones quickly assured her. "We all want to know who's responsible. But I thought they found a suicide note in the apartment of the guy with the bomb?"

"They did," Jane nodded. "But he might not have acted alone. We just want to make sure we got the right guy."

"Okay… so, how can I help you?" the young man wondered as they entered a well-lit office with Connelly's name on its door.

"Why was Mr. Connelly in the restaurant? Did he have an appointment with someone?" the detective inquired and routinely looked around in the candidate's office.

"Actually, I didn't know about it until I heard it on the evening news," Jones admitted. "On Tuesdays, Andrew usually has, uh… had dinner with his wife. They had this agreement that they'd reserve at least one night per week for themselves no matter how stressful his political career would get."

"But he wasn't there to meet his wife?" Jane asked. When the campaign manager shook his head, she frowned. "So, he must have had an important reason to cancel on her and go to that restaurant instead…"

"I guess so…," Jones agreed. "Wait, you mean the bomber lured him there?"

"That's what we're trying to find out…," the brunette nodded. "Do you have access to Connelly's personal schedule? Or did he have an assistant?"

"Ah, yes, he did — Julie Borsky," the campaign manager said and pointed at a young woman in a staff photo on Connelly's desk. "She organized everything for him, but she's not here."

"Where is she?" Jane asked.

"I don't know. We haven't heard from her since Tuesday… since the explosion. But things have been chaotic, and many of our staff members haven't showed up," he excused her absence and grabbed a business card from the desk. "Here, that's her. If you want to talk to her…"

"Okay, thank you." Jane studied Julie Borsky's card. "Are you aware of any enemies your candidate might have had…? Any threats or weird e-mails he has received…?"

Dan Jones paused but then shook his head. "No, nothing unusual. Of course, there are always some disgruntled voters who feel ignored. But I don't think any of them would have blown up a restaurant to make their point…"

"Well, if you remember anything, even if it doesn't seem important, give me a call," the detective urged him as they left Connelly's office.

"Sure, I will," Jones promised. "Anything else I can do to help?"

"If you hear from Ms. Borsky, tell her to get in touch with us." Before Jane had a chance to think of anything else, her phone rang and she quickly checked its display. "Uh, I gotta go. Thank you for your time."

She nodded him goodbye and answered her phone. "Hey, Korsak, what have you got?" The brunette's face filled with determination as she listened to the sergeant's news and left the Connelly campaign headquarters. "Okay, I'll meet you there," she said and rushed to her car.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Jane parked her sedan close to Horatio Harris Park in Roxbury and joined Korsak as well as several SWAT units in bullet-proof vests near a rundown brick stone apartment complex on Harrishof Street, where Carl Henslow was supposed to be hiding.

"You sure you want to come along?" Korsak greeted her as she was putting on her own bullet-proof vest. "Doctor Isles was pretty adamant about you resting your ribs…"

Jane rolled her eyes. "I'm not gonna let a few bruises stop me from getting that asshole who killed my partner."

"Thought so," the sergeant admitted with a grin. "Alright. Come on, they're about to go in. His apartment is on the first floor."

Jane and Korsak followed the SWATs to the apartment building until one of the trained specialists held up his hand and signaled them to wait outside near some parked cars.

With guns drawn and helmets pulled in deep, several SWATs snuck into the building, while the remaining ones stood guard outside and secured potential escape routes.

"Got anything useful from Connelly's headquarters?" Korsak asked as he and Jane were forced to wait for the mission to unfold.

"Not really…," the brunette sighed. "Except that his personal assistant has kept a low profile since Tuesday…"

At the same time, the first two SWAT members inside the building took their position to the left and to the right of Apartment 8 on the first floor and gave each other the thumbs-up. Then one of them kicked the door open with his foot and stormed inside, closely followed by his partner.

The sudden beeping of a sophisticated device on a table close to the door instantly made them regret their strategy.

When the first SWAT member turned towards the ever-intensifying noise, his eyes widened and a wave of adrenaline surged through his veins.

"BOMB!" he yelled and pushed the other SWATs back out of the apartment as fast as he could.

Almost tripping over one another, they all stormed towards the building's front door.

Right outside, Jane and Korsak were eagerly waiting on the stairs and stumbled backwards in confusion when they heard the SWATs yelling and saw them running into their direction.

"Go, go, go!" one of the SWATs shouted.

"What the—" was all that Jane could utter before the SWATs pushed her and Korsak behind a car and dove down behind them.

And then the second bomb within just two days went off in Boston.

BAMM!

Walls shaking… glass shattering… pieces of the front door getting ripped out… and a few SWATs almost flying down the stairs in front of the building…

When the smoke finally cleared, Jane heaved herself up behind the car that had served as protection and found Korsak sending her a worried glance.

"You alright?" the sergeant gasped out.

The brunette looked down on herself and brushed off some dust. "Yeah… think so," she muttered under her breath, while her aching ribs made her wish she had heeded Maura's advice and just stayed home.

"That sucker had a bomb waiting for us in his apartment," the SWAT leader cursed and looked around. "Everybody okay?"

While one SWAT member after another nodded and signaled that everything was fine, Jane's eyes were caught by something else — the sight of a man climbing over a fence at the back of the building and taking off.

"Korsak!" she guided the sergeant's attention to the fugitive before dashing after him.

Restricted by their protective gear, the SWATs took a few seconds to get back onto their feet and to follow the detective who was following that suspicious man.

Ignoring the stinging pain in her ribcage, Jane ran after the suspect and chased him around several corners and across several streets.

Just when she thought she couldn't run any further and her chest would explode, the man had maneuvered himself into a cul-de-sac and couldn't run any further either. Panting heavily, Jane blocked his escape route and aimed her gun straight at Carl Henslow in front of her.

The man grinned at the detective. A maniac, devilish grin. The grin of someone who knew he had lost but who wasn't ready to give up.

And Jane knew it, too. She had seen that expression way too often before. "Who hired you?" she asked in one last attempt to get some information out of him before it would be too late. But that moment had already passed.

In an instant, Henslow pulled a gun from the back of his pants and jerked his arm with the weapon forward — and Jane did what she had to do.

BANG!

The bullet went straight through Henslow's right shoulder, and the force of the shot sent him tumbling backwards and landing on his ass. Though his arm hung limp at his side, he was still clutching his gun.

"Just give me a name!" Jane demanded in desperation just as several SWATs arrived in her back.

But all she got was another devilish grin, then Henslow tightened his grip around his gun, grimaced, and launched his arm up again to aim at the detective.

BANG!

Another shot kept him at bay, and the second bullet lodged itself deep within his abdominal flesh. Henslow slumped down, shivering, his fingers now loosely hugging his gun.

Still keeping her own gun aimed straight at him, Jane carefully approached the man on the ground, kicked away his weapon, and earned herself one last grin from Henslow as he squinted at her before passing out.

When the SWATs took over and immobilized Henslow until an ambulance would arrive, Jane finally let her gun sink down, took a few steps backwards, and leaned against a fence to catch her breath. Just seconds later, Korsak reached the scene and worriedly studied her from head to toe.

"Well, the good news is that you survived another bomb and some sicko trying to shoot you…," the sergeant sighed.

"And the bad news…?" Jane gasped.

"I think Doctor Isles will kill you for your recklessness…," Korsak smirked.

The brunette let out a chuckle of relief but immediately rubbed her chest at the resulting protest from her ribs.

One of the SWAT members approached them and presented Korsak with a cell phone, a small notebook, and a wallet from Henslow. "I assume you wanna take this…?"

"Yeah," the sergeant nodded, fished a plastic bag out of his pocket, and sealed the three items inside.

"We probably won't be able to recover much from his apartment…," the SWAT guy regretted and marched off.

When the sirens of an ambulance were heard in the distance, Jane and Korsak cast one last glance at the unconscious body of Carl Henslow on the ground and trudged back towards Harrishof Street.

* * *

In the late afternoon on this second day after the fateful _Il Camino_ explosion, the team in the makeshift morgue was making steady progress with the identification of the victims. Relatives had come down and brought toothbrushes, combs, used wine glasses, and a variety of other items that would allow the extraction of DNA for comparison testing with the DNA recovered from the remains of the bodies. The victims found in the ruins of the apartments next to the restaurant had almost all been identified by now, but there was a lot of work left to be done, especially in the right section of the morgue, where several tables still held numerous bone fragments that would prove extremely difficult to identify.

In the middle section, where only a few victims were still without a name, Maura leaned against one of the tables and stared at an opened body bag containing the burned bones of the latest victim that had just been identified. After a moment of silence, she zipped up the bag and sighed, then took off her gloves and rubbed her tired eyes. Almost sixty hours without much sleep were taking a heavy toll on her body, and she knew it would have been irresponsible to continue her grim task without stepping away for at least a few minutes. Reluctantly, she made her way out of the maze of tables and picked up the list with identified victims from a large whiteboard that held all information on those who had died in the blast. Suppressing a yawn, the medical examiner headed towards the office section next door.

Just a few steps later, she paused when she spotted the small group of desperate relatives gathered at the end of the hallway, waiting for an update on those who had died and clinging to their faint illogical hopes that there might be another explanation for the lack of any signs of life from their loved ones since the attack. As the Chief Medical Examiner, Maura rarely had to inform someone of the death of a family member, and she was thankful for that. Though she had overcome her former uneasiness in the presence of other people, this was still one of the few responsibilities she preferred to delegate at all cost. However, no matter how uncomfortable this task would make her feel, she would never unleash Doctor Pike on those poor relatives who were already suffering so much. Thus, she slowly approached the small gathering and secretly wished for a last-minute distraction that would take this burden off her shoulders.

And for a brief moment, Maura's wish almost came true when hectic noises emerged from behind her in the morgue and she turned back around — but only to see Michael Welsh and his entourage enter the scene. Her choice was now between facing those desperate relatives or letting a PR-hungry politician use her for his latest media stunt. And as such, the choice was surprisingly easy.

When she reached the victims' relatives and quietly cleared her throat, several pairs of eyes looked at her in despair and searched her face for any signs of good news. In vain.

"We have identified five more people over the past hours…," Maura started hesitatingly, then focused on the list in her hand. As she read aloud the newly added names, each one of them was accompanied by sobs and sighs from the people around her.

"We will continue the identification process for as long as it takes, and we appreciate your patience," the medical examiner concluded. "I know it must be very hard for—"

"What about Ann Thomas?" an elderly woman with teary eyes asked and pushed forward. "She's my daughter…"

Maura checked her list again. "I'm sorry, but I don't know at this point," she said as calmly as possible, trying to keep her own emotions at bay. "I promise I'll let you know as soon as I have any new information."

When the medical examiner turned away to return to the morgue, the prolonged uncertainty about her daughter's fate got the better of Mrs. Thomas and she glared at Maura.

"Aren't you the daughter of that mob boss?" the elderly woman asked loud enough for everyone to hear. All eyes turned to the blonde again.

Maura stopped dead in her tracks and questioningly looked at the other woman. "Excuse me?"

"Why are you even allowed to work here?" Mrs. Thomas added without any attempt to contain her frustration. "I mean, given that the sick bastard who blew up our families was involved with that mobster you call your father, they shouldn't let you mess with this process…"

Swallowing hard, Maura tried to suppress those hauntingly familiar doubts that always crept up her spine at the mention of Paddy Doyle. "I don't call this man my father, and—"

"I don't want you to touch the remains of my daughter!" Mrs. Thomas exclaimed in agitation just as Jane emerged from around the corner.

"What's going on here?" the detective stepped in.

"Nothing," Maura whispered as she withdrew to seek refuge in the morgue.

Confused, Jane watched the blonde leave, then faced the angry woman and the gathering of relatives, whose grief had temporarily turned into curiosity and indignation. "Is there a problem?"

"You bet there is!" Mrs. Thomas declared ferociously. "How can they let this woman in here?! She's related to that mobster who tells his minions to blow up restaurants and—"

"Okay, calm down," Jane tried to appease her and comfortingly patted her arm. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss, but this woman happens to be the best medical examiner out there, and I can assure you that she and her team will—"

"Can I help here?" Michael Welsh suddenly asked from behind after having snuck up on the gathering as soon as Mrs. Thomas' agitated voice had caught his attention. And like magnets, his whole entourage had followed along, including his campaign manager Logan Linklater, a cameraman, an incessantly scribbling journalist, and a handful of other media representatives.

Annoyed by the mayoral candidate's seemingly endless thirst for positive PR, Jane frowned and stepped out of the camera's range. "Geez, do you have a little alarm that goes off whenever there's an opportunity for you to pull another publicity stunt?"

"Well, excuse me, but it was impossible to ignore the commotion over here," Welsh apologized hypocritically. "I just wanted to help."

"We don't need your help," the detective quickly objected.

But before Jane had a chance to get rid of Welsh and his followers, Mrs. Thomas stepped forward and beggingly reached for the candidate's hand. "I just want to take my daughter home… She… she went to BC and I came to visit her… We wanted to meet in… in… in the… restaurant…"

When her words turned into sobs, Welsh immediately put his arm around the woman's shoulders to comfort her — but not without glancing at his cameraman to make sure he had the best angle on the scene. "I promise I will personally look into this and make sure everything is handled with utmost care…"

Annoyed by the candidate's slyness, Jane rolled her eyes and quietly stepped away from the scene. But she wasn't fast enough.

"Detective, when can we expect your investigation to be completed?" Welsh asked insistently, and his cameraman immediately zoomed in on the brunette. "These people deserve some closure, don't you think?"

Trying not to let herself go in front of the camera, Jane gave him a piercing stare but kept her voice calm. "I'm sure you'll understand that we have to look into every detail before we can officially close this case."

"Yes, of course," Welsh held her gaze with a feigned smile. "But I was under the impression that the culprit has been identified and that a suicide note has been found in his apartment. What else do you need?"

"Proof that he didn't have any accomplices, for starters…," Jane grumbled and turned around to leave.

"What, you think there was someone else behind this?" Welsh called after her, and silence filled the hallway as everybody was waiting for the detective's response.

"No comment," Jane shouted without looking back and disappeared around a corner, her mind already focused on a much more important matter.

Minutes later, after having checked various rooms in vain, she finally found said important matter sitting near a coffee machine in a small office. Jane slid onto a chair next to Maura and arched her eyebrow at the sight of the cup of instant coffee in the medical examiner's hand.

"Okay, whatever bad happened is still no reason for you to drink this swill," the detective decided jokingly and took the cup out of Maura's hand.

"Wait, I want to finish that," the blonde protested rather unconvincingly as she let go of the cup.

"No, you don't," Jane grinned and sipped at the coffee.

Relieved by Jane's presence and her much lighter mood in comparison to just two nights before, Maura pouted playfully but then noticed the detective's dirty clothes. "Do I want to know why you're all covered in dust again?"

"Nope…," Jane smirked and took another sip.

"Did you at least find that driver of the Corvette?" the medical examiner tried to distract herself from her earlier confrontation with Mrs. Thomas.

"We did… but he's kinda not able to talk right now…," Jane sighed. When she realized that Maura wasn't really listening, her voice became more serious. "What happened with that woman out there?"

"Nothing," the blonde shrugged and tiredly buried her face in her hands. "She was just grieving the loss of her daughter… She didn't mean it…"

Not quite satisfied with that answer, Jane rubbed the small of her friend's back. "Anything I can do?"

No…," Maura shook her head but then changed her mind and looked up with determination. "Actually, yes…"


	9. Night 3 & Day 4

_**A/N: **__Since it's Friday 13__th__ and there's probably a black cat waiting somewhere to whack me over the head with a ladder, I'll try to get the remaining chapters uploaded before that happens. Two more after this one. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Chapter 9 – Night 3 & Day 4**

**…**

Shortly thereafter, a half-eaten pizza was waiting on Jane's couch table under the watchful eyes of Jo Friday sprawled out on an armchair and contently growling into a cushion, while Jane stood behind the kitchen counter in her casual sweatpants and a BPD T-shirt and absentmindedly stirred two tea bags in two mugs, her attention fully consumed by a rather unusual sight in front of her.

Still all churned up inside by the string of stressful events over the past few days, Maura had decided to break with her habit of logically analyzing her own emotions and to let her instincts take over instead. And her instincts were quite angry right now. Consequently, Jane's self-defense dummy was once again forced to hang around helplessly and to let another fusillade of punches pelt against its skin. And though Maura's jabs weren't as powerful as the detective's, they came in a much more rapid succession. Right, left, right, right — the blonde clearly didn't hold back.

"Am I doing it right?" she asked in between another two punches. When there was no response, she paused and turned to the brunette in the kitchen. "Jane?"

Still absorbed in her thoughts, Jane suddenly realized that Maura had stopped. "Huh?"

"Am I doing it right?" the blonde repeated rather impatiently and continued her attack on the poor dummy.

"Yeah, looks… perfect," the detective approved and admiringly watched Maura in her sports outfit skip around the dummy. "You've gotten much better since our last training…"

"That's because I'm imagining Pike's head up there," Maura gasped out and landed two uppercuts on the dummy's head to demonstrate her point.

"Please, don't leave any evidence behind when you kill Pike some day," Jane joked. "Wouldn't wanna arrest you…"

"Don't worry," the medical examiner sent her a rather roguish glance. "There are some fairly simple methods to dispose of a body without leaving anything behind."

"Uh, okay…," the detective frowned playfully. "And remind me to never make you mad at me…"

Out of breath, Maura finally stopped and admonishingly looked at the brunette. "Well, you're getting there since you're still not lying down…"

"But… you wanted tea?!" Jane protested and pointed at the two mugs in front of her.

"And I believe this tea has been ready for more than five minutes," the blonde nagged and inspected the two mugs. "It's bad enough that you only have those abominable tea bags. You could at least pay attention to the correct steeping time."

"Or I could just get a beer…" Jane suggested stubbornly.

With a sigh, Maura removed the tea bags and rolled her eyes at the detective. "Would you please lie down and take care of your costae fluctuantes for a while now?"

"That sounds highly inappropriate…," the brunette continued her teasing but instantly shrunk down at the glare she got from Maura in return.

"I guess I should call your mother…," the medical examiner muttered to herself as she picked up the two mugs and headed to the couch. "Maybe you'll listen to _her_…"

"God, woman!" Jane huffed but eventually followed and plopped down next to the blonde.

"No, no, on your back!" Maura immediately ordered and pulled the brunette down onto her back, leaving her hand on Jane's shoulder to make sure she wouldn't dare to get up again.

"Do you treat your other patients like that, too?" Jane grumbled but gave up her resistance and let her legs dangle over the armrest at the other end of the couch.

"I don't have any other patients," the medical examiner pointed out.

"Gee, I wonder why…," the detective murmured and sleepily closed her eyes.

Feeling a little guilty about her moodiness, Maura apologetically squeezed Jane's shoulder. "I'm sorry… It's been a long day…"

"I know… It's okay," the brunette soothed her. When she felt Maura lean forward to reach for something on the couch table, she grinned and didn't even bother opening her eyes. "And I also know you're just trying to keep that pizza all to yourself."

"No, I do not," the blonde objected in her telltale high-pitched voice before taking a bite from the slice of pizza she had just grabbed.

"You do too," Jane chuckled, followed by a bark from the Yorkshire terrier still lounging in the armchair. "See, even Jo Friday knows."

Maura contemplatively studied the dog while gulping down her pizza. "I think I'm getting you a sniffer dog…"

"You what?" The detective was suddenly wide awake again.

"Well, you've already been in two explosions within just one week," the medical examiner reminded her. "I won't let you get into a third one…"

"But I think Jo Friday would be jealous with another dog around…," Jane mused, and right on cue again, Jo Friday signaled her agreement with another bark.

"Fine," Maura pondered her strategy. "Then we'll teach Jo Friday how to sniff bombs…"

"Yeah, good luck with that…," Jane quipped, but before they could discuss her dog's career options any further, the detective's phone buzzed away on the couch table. Tiredly, she reached for the device and answered the call. "Rizzoli…" For a few moments, she just listened to the person at the other end of the line. "I see… thank you," she eventually hung up and tossed the phone back onto the table. "Well, so much for our chance to get Carl Henslow to talk…," she grunted. "He's dead."

Weary and frustrated, Maura leaned back. "Now what?"

"Back to square one," Jane sighed.

* * *

In the early morning hours of the following day, Jane, Maura, and Korsak were huddled around a desk in an office next to the crime lab at BPD and meticulously going through the evidence from Carl Henslow's pockets as well as from what was left of his apartment. After several hours of uninterrupted sleep, the three of them looked much more alert and determined to dive back into the case. Unfortunately, the hand-made bomb that Henslow had installed in his apartment to fend off any surprise visitors had destroyed most of his computers and documents that otherwise might have revealed the identity of the true mastermind behind the _Il Camino_ attack.

Annoyed by their lack of progress, Jane flipped through the pages of the worn notebook that they had found with Henslow after his attempted escape. "It's all abbreviations. Without any additional clues, there's no way to figure out the names of his clients," she sighed at the sight of Henslow's encrypted listing of clients and assignments.

"The crime lab is working on the hard drives that the CSRU techs recovered from his apartment," Maura said and peeked at the notebook in the detective's hands. "Maybe they'll find some hints…"

"I've gone through the records from Walpole again," Korsak announced and looked up from the laptop screen in front of him. "Apparently, Henslow had a cousin in there who died during the fight that got Henslow his extended prison term." Trying to compensate for Frost's computer skills as best as he could, the sergeant quickly browsed through his files. "Henslow blamed Buccitelli, who claimed it was self-defense. A few days later, Buccitelli got attacked in the prison yard, so they moved him to another facility for the remaining few weeks of his term."

"So, Buccitelli meets Henslow in prison and pisses him off," Jane began to recollect all facts. "Then Henslow tries to get back at him but fails. Buccitelli is released and Henslow does his time. And a few months later, Buccitelli supposedly blows up the prosecutor who got him into prison, while in fact, it was Henslow who triggered the bomb."

"Something like this, yes," the sergeant confirmed. "Quite a scheme if all Henslow wanted was revenge for his cousin…"

"Right… it seems like a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone," Jane mused. "So who hired Buccitelli to deliver that briefcase? Henslow was already at the scene when Buccitelli arrived… And if Welsh is somehow involved in this, I doubt that he would get his own hands dirty…"

Korsak fished a two-page document out of a stack of papers next to his laptop. "We checked Henslow's cell phone records, but we didn't get any hits from his last calls — most of them are prepaid phones… nothing traceable," the sergeant explained, while Maura reached for the list and studied it.

Before they could discuss the case further, an officer knocked on the open door. "Detective Rizzoli? Someone upstairs wants to talk to you… Says she's an assistant of Andrew Connelly…"

"Okay, thank you," Jane nodded, then exchanged a look of curiosity with Korsak as they got up.

"I'll check with the crime lab to see if they got anything from Henslow's computers," Maura suggested.

"Alright, I'll see you later," Jane smiled thankfully and followed the sergeant upstairs.

* * *

Minutes later, the detective and the sergeant had sat down opposite Julie Borsky, a lean and bleary-eyed young woman, who had been Andrew Connelly's personal assistant until his untimely death just three days ago. She looked shaken and certainly hadn't gotten much more sleep than Jane and Korsak themselves.

"I'm glad you've come out of hiding," Jane declared after having briefly introduced herself and Korsak.

"I… I would have come forward sooner, but I was worried…," Borsky hesitatingly admitted.

"Worried about what?" the sergeant inquired.

"Well, I was the only one who knew about Andrew's meeting with Mr. Welsh," she revealed quietly. "But then the restaurant blew up, and I thought—"

"Hold on," Jane frowned. "Connelly had a meeting with Michael Welsh? At the _Il Camino_ restaurant?"

"Yes, on Tuesday," the young woman nodded. "But nobody knew except Andrew and me… and maybe his wife."

"What was so important about this meeting that you couldn't tell anybody?" Korsak wondered.

"Well, I had done some research for a presentation on campaign spending, and there were some irregularities in Mr. Welsh's records," Borsky explained. "You know, most of them are publicly accessible—"

"Yeah, through the Office of Campaign & Political Finance, I know," Jane confirmed impatiently.

"So, I told Andrew about it, and he wanted to discuss it with Mr. Welsh first before involving anybody else," the assistant continued and her features softened. "Andrew was all about keeping this campaign clean. He wouldn't have gone public with such findings unless he had clear proof that something fishy was going on."

"And this planned meeting with Welsh — do you have anything in writing about it?" the sergeant asked hopefully.

Borsky shook her head. "Not really. I mean, I made a non-specific note in our calendar, but Andrew scheduled the meeting over the phone… I don't think they exchanged any e-mails, if that's what you're asking…" With trembling fingers, she reached into her jacket's pocket and revealed a memory stick. "But I brought you this. It includes all my files with the data on this year's campaign spending… I thought it'd be easier for you… so you wouldn't have to look through the public records yourself…"

"Okay, thank you," Jane accepted the stick. "But why didn't you come to us right away?"

"Well, think about it," Connelly's assistant steadied her voice. "Aside from Andrew and me, nobody else knew about any of this. And then Mr. Welsh didn't show up, but instead, some crazy guy triggered a bomb, so I figured we must have accidentally uncovered something really bad in those financial records. And I was worried, of course. I thought they might come after me too…"

"Who exactly?" Korsak wondered.

"Mr. Welsh and his staff, I guess… or whoever is behind this… I don't know…," Borsky stuttered. "But I felt as if I was stuck in a bad movie… as if I was the key witness whom everybody was trying to… trying to kill…"

When the young woman's eyes filled with tears, Jane lowered her voice and comfortingly reached for Julie Borsky's hand. "And what made you change your mind now?"

"I… I just thought I owe it to Andrew," she declared sobbingly. "He trusted me. He and his family, they deserve to know the truth, and I wanted to help find it…"

Jane and Korsak exchanged a quick glance of mutual understanding. Julie Borsky's tears were real and they both believed her story.

"You did the right thing," the sergeant offered his support to the young woman as they slowly got up. "I'll have an officer take you home… Do you have any family or friends where you could stay for a few days?"

"Yes, thank you," Borsky whispered and dabbed off her tears with a handkerchief.

"We'll look into this," Jane promised before she and the sergeant stormed out of the conference room to pursue their new and rather unsettling lead in this case.

* * *

Several hours of reviewing the files on Julie Borsky's memory stick later, it was clear that these documents did indeed contain a number of dubious donations to Welsh's mayoral campaign. While one or two irregularities maybe could have been dismissed as typos or glitches in the OCPF's public system, several dozens of donations from people with fake identities and stolen social security numbers as well as larger campaign contributions from shady PO box organizations made it impossible to ignore the suspicious patterns as mere oversights. Thus, Jane and Korsak had eventually decided to pay the candidate a surprise visit in order to get to the heart of the matter.

Thirty minutes later, Jane parked her blue sedan in front of Welsh's campaign headquarters just as Korsak on the passenger seat finished his phone call with one of the BRIC officers.

"Connelly's cell phone records prove that he made several calls to a number at Welsh's headquarters," the sergeant informed the detective. "Last call was made about two hours before the explosion. After that, he only called his wife and received several calls from the press and from a few numbers we haven't been able to track yet."

"Okay then, let's have a little chat with Welsh," Jane said, grabbed a folder with printouts of Welsh's campaign spending records, and got out of the car. "I bet if we set up a camera out here, he'd come running within five seconds. That prick has a sixth sense for cameras."

"True…," Korsak chuckled in agreement and followed her towards the entrance of the modern multi-story building near Boston Common.

Once inside, the difference to Connelly's headquarters became clear immediately. This large office was still bustling with activity, phones were ringing incessantly, and volunteers were eagerly typing away on various computer keyboards. And in the midst of it all, Welsh's ever-curious cameraman from the candidate's social media team was recording every minute of the campaign.

After a few glances across the room, Jane spotted Michael Welsh in an office behind glass windows with their blinds only halfway down. With him was another young man in suit and tie, and apparently they were having quite an argument.

The brunette nudged Korsak, and they both headed straight for the office — until Logan Linklater blocked their way and greeted them with his most honest feigned smile.

"You're that detective, right?" Welsh's campaign manager asked and stretched out his hand.

"Detective Rizzoli, yes," Jane confirmed rather sullenly and ignored his hand. "And this is Sergeant Korsak. We need to talk to Mr. Welsh — in private."

"Mr. Welsh is in an important meeting right now," Linklater declared and pointedly held his ground between her and the office, unimpressed by the urgency in the detective's voice and unwilling to clear the way just yet. "Maybe I can help you? What do you need?"

Secretly wondering what she'd do to the young man in front of her if she ever met him alone in a dark alley at night, Jane stepped closer and lowered her voice. "If you don't move your hollow suite out of the way right now, I'll make sure your Spielberg wannabe over there gets a nice scene for his documentary," she hissed and nodded towards the cameraman.

Seizing Linklater's momentary indecisiveness on how to hold her back, Jane pushed him out of the way and marched to Welsh's office, where the candidate was still absorbed in a heated discussion with his staff member. With Korsak following close on her heels, she knocked briefly, rather symbolically, and opened the door without waiting for permission.

"This goes too far and—" Welsh was yelling at the other man but then paused abruptly and turned to the intruders standing in the doorframe. "What the hell?!"

"We need to talk to you," Jane declared while subtly blocking the door with her arm to prevent Linklater behind her from sneaking inside.

Confused by the interruption, Welsh searched Linklater's eyes and ignored the detective. A bad idea.

"Now!" Jane demanded brusquely.

Slightly intimidated by the detective's tone, Welsh finally waved his staff member off and signaled Jane and Korsak to have a seat at his disproportionately large desk.

"What were you two arguing about?" Korsak asked inconspicuously as they all sat down.

"Just a difference in opinion regarding my public appearances," Welsh politely fended him off.

"You mean the way you have embraced every PR opportunity since the bombing?" the sergeant took another shot.

"Look, I didn't make the rules — that's just how this business works. It's all about the public image," the candidate defended his strategy but then switched to a more placatory tone. "But you're right — sometimes, less is more. Unfortunately, my strategist and I, we don't always see eye to eye on that one…" Welsh absentmindedly looked through the glass windows towards his upset staff member before straightening up and focusing on his visitors. "So, why exactly are you here?"

Jane fished a slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Welsh. "Whose number is that?"

The politician glanced at the phone number. "That's one of our generic numbers from our campaign ads. Incoming calls are routed to the next available staff member… Why are you asking?"

The detective observantly studied Welsh's face, waiting for even the tiniest twitch that might indicate he was lying. "Why didn't you show up for your meeting with Andrew Connelly on Tuesday?"

"My what?" A puzzled look flashed over Welsh's face.

"We've been told you were supposed to meet your opponent for dinner at the _Il Camino_ restaurant," Jane explained.

"What? Who would say that?" the candidate wondered incredulously. "I participated in a panel discussion at BU that night. Hundreds of people saw me there…"

"What makes you think you'd need an alibi?" Korsak smirked.

"Well… you obviously imply I had something to do with that atrocious act…," Welsh retorted. "Should I call my lawyer?"

"We'd prefer if you called your campaign accountant," Jane placed her folder with the printouts on the table and pulled out several sheets. "It's interesting how many charitable organizations support your campaign…"

"That's perfectly legal in Massachusetts!" the politician argued as he reached for the documents and studied them with a frown.

"Not if they are just smoke screens for other shady activities…," the detective added. "And what about all these individual donors who don't even exist? Do you expect them to vote for you, too? Because I hate to break it to you, but that's perfectly _not_ legal in Massachusetts…"

"I can't stop people from supporting my campaign," Welsh objected. "And I… I don't have time to check each individual donation for its legitimacy!"

"Oh, don't worry," Jane sneered. "We'll be happy to do that for you."

The mayoral candidate shrugged rather indifferently. "Do what you have to do." With growing indignation about those unpleasant questions, he rose from his chair and disdainfully stared at his two visitors. "But I can assure you, neither did I talk to Mr. Connelly on the phone nor did I have any plans for meeting with him at that restaurant." He pointedly opened his office door. "Would that be all? I'll be hosting another panel discussion and a dinner reception tonight, so I'm rather busy…"

Exchanging an annoyed eye-rolling, Jane and Korsak got up and reluctantly left the office.

"Make sure your cameraman tags along tonight so people can see that your week is as terrible as everybody else's," the brunette sardonically advised Welsh in passing. "It's all about the public image, you know…"

Without further words, Jane and Korsak left Welsh's campaign headquarters under the curious eyes of his still upset strategist, his campaign manager, and the candidate himself.


	10. Day 4 (cont'd)

_**A/N: **__Almost there… Not sure what's going on with the site but it keeps crashing on me… have no idea if those of you with story alerts actually get them b/c I haven't gotten any for the stories I'm following. Guess you'll have to double-check if you missed any chapters. :-/_

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Day 4 (cont'd)**

**…**

In the late afternoon of that third day after the fateful _Il Camino_ explosion, Sergeant Korsak was once again sitting behind his computer in the BRIC and painstakingly reviewing numerous records from the Office of Campaign & Political Finance. Without any tangible proof of Welsh's involvement in the planning of the bombing, or at least of his alleged meeting with Connelly, the sergeant and his colleagues were forced to find some other incriminating evidence that could link the candidate to the devastating attack. And given those suspicious patterns amongst the donations made to his mayoral campaign, their best bet right now was to focus on the organizations behind those funds and to tie them to Michael Welsh. But that was easier said than done.

When the tables and figures began to blur before his eyes, Korsak leaned back and took a deep breath. Even though his experience from his long career made it somewhat easier for him to cope with the loss of Detective Frost, the stress of the past few days was finally beginning to wear him down, too. Thus, he was rather thankful when Jane returned to the BRIC and handed him a bottle of water.

"Got anything?" she asked as she sank down next to him with a second bottle of water for herself and ripped open a small packet of painkillers.

"Nope," the sergeant sighed and peeked at her from the side. "How are your ribs?"

"Hopefully numb again in a few minutes…," Jane groaned before popping two of her pills and leaning back.

As if on cue, Maura joined them in the BRIC and slid onto a chair next to the detective. "I left Pike in charge of the morgue for the rest of the night… I'm sure I'll regret that tomorrow…" Habitually, she reached for the painkillers and studied the packet to make sure Jane's self-medication wouldn't accidentally result in a trip to the ER.

"Don't say anything…," Jane warned preemptively and shrunk back in her chair when the medical examiner gave her an admonishing glance in return. "… or give me that look!"

Shaking her head in amusement, Maura pointedly confiscated the pills and left it at that. "How's your investigation going?"

"Well, let's see," the detective grumbled. "Henslow is dead; Connelly is dead; his assistant doesn't have proof that the candidates had dinner arrangements on Tuesday; Welsh has an airtight alibi for that night; and we can't prove that Welsh at least knew about the dirty money funding his campaign… So, yay, we're doing great!"

"What about the phone calls Connelly made to Welsh's headquarters?" Maura wondered.

"They don't prove anything… We don't even know whom he talked to…," Jane said but then turned to Korsak. "What about those unknown incoming calls on Connelly's cell phone before the explosion?"

The sergeant shook his head but brought Connelly's cell phone record to the large screen on the wall anyway. "We've identified most numbers… Nothing suspicious… And the few unknown numbers could be anybody — voters, nosy reporters, who knows…"

When he scrolled up and down through the list of numbers on the screen, Maura suddenly sat up straight. "That's the same number!" she exclaimed.

"What?" Jane frowned.

"There, the call at 5:47 p.m. — that same number also called Carl Henslow," the blonde stated. "I saw it in his cell phone records this morning."

The detective incredulously raised her eyebrow. "What, now you got a photographic memory, too?"

"Of course not," Maura denied. "But this number is fairly easy to remember. Just look at it…"

"I _am_ looking at it…," the brunette moaned querulously.

"It's _pi_," the medical examiner declared with her usual misplaced excitement.

"_Pie_…?" Jane grimaced. "As in Nana Rizzoli's apple pie with cheddar cheese crumb topping?"

"No, but that sounds delicious," Maura's thoughts wandered off. "If you give me the recipe, we could—"

"Maura!" the detective whined impatiently.

"Sorry…," the blonde smiled sheepishly and focused on the numbers again. "I'm talking about _pi_, the mathematical constant. Its first seven digits are identical with those following the area code of this phone number. 617-314-1592. See?"

"Whatever…," Jane agreed indifferently. "So, whose number is it?"

"How would I know?" Maura asked in surprise. "You just wanted to know why I recognized that number, so I told you…"

"Please, give me back my painkillers," the detective begged rather desperately.

"No, I believe you've had enough of them already," the medical examiner declined, oblivious to Jane's sarcasm. "You could overdose."

"Yes, that's what I'm hoping for," Jane muttered in frustration.

"Ahem…," Korsak hesitantly reminded the two women of his presence and brought Henslow's cell phone record to the large screen. "Doctor Isles is right — Henslow did get a call from the same number. Several actually…"

Ignoring Maura's triumphant smile, Jane turned to the sergeant and to the listing of phone numbers. "You said it's a prepaid phone though… So, we don't know who it belongs to?"

"Nope…," he shook his head. "But whoever has that phone called Henslow _and_ Connelly."

"Yeah, and the call to Connelly was made shortly before the explosion," Jane tried to piece together the puzzle. "Maybe to make sure he really was in the restaurant…"

"And what do you know, another call from that number to Henslow was made last night," Korsak announced. "We couldn't stop the media from reporting about the explosion in Henslow's street, but we haven't released any details on Henslow himself, yet."

"So, I guess, our mysterious caller is wetting his pants and wants to know what's going on…," the brunette mused. "Find out if that phone's still turned on and try to locate it."

"Well, I can try," the sergeant agreed. "But if it's one of those cheap throwaway phones without GPS, we'll only get an approximate position from the cell towers."

"I'm pretty sure that's all we'll need," Jane declared and confidently beamed at Maura and Korsak.

* * *

As the sun disappeared on the horizon and gave way to another chilly November night, Jane and Maura got out of the detective's sedan in front of Welsh's campaign headquarters, closely followed by Sergeant Korsak and a number of uniformed officers, who had simultaneously arrived in their patrol cars.

The sergeant quickly caught up with the two women and nodded to Jane. "Phone's still turned on. Last ping to the closest cell tower was just minutes ago."

"Alright, make sure we got someone at every exit," Jane ordered. "Just in case…"

Korsak signaled some of the officers to spread out around the premises, while the other ones followed them into the building.

"Are you sure this will work?" Maura whispered on their way towards the hall where the panel and reception were to take place.

"I hope so," Jane murmured. "But if not, we can still go into lockdown until we find that damn phone…"

Moments later, Jane, Maura, Korsak, and a number of officers reached the entrance arch leading into the large hall, with a poster on the nearest wall announcing that night's panel discussion on _Competitive Challenges and USPs for Medium Businesses in Greater Boston_.

Dozens of dressed-up ladies and gentlemen as well as Welsh's staff members in evening attire had gathered around numerous bar tables and were enjoying small-talk and champagne while waiting for the panel discussion to start. At the far end of the hall, three suited panelists were just taking their seats at a table on an elevated podium with microphones and little name plates, whereas Michael Welsh himself was still talking to one of his staffers at the edge of the podium. And all the while, Welsh's cameraman was scurrying back and forth to document the candidate's each and every move.

Inconspicuously, the detective and her colleagues snuck into the hall and momentarily mingled with the people standing in the back.

"Stay near the exit, okay?" Jane urged Maura while letting her eyes wander across the room.

"Why? The more eyes and ears you have in the room, the better…," the blonde objected.

"Don't push it, Maura," the detective complained. "I've already agreed to let you come along. I don't need you to get into trouble…"

"But I can defend myself — just ask your dummy!" Maura protested and hopefully looked at the brunette.

"Tell you what," Jane tried to ignore the medical examiner's begging. "As soon as you knock _me_ out instead of my dummy, you can play cops and robbers with us."

"Well, that wouldn't be a fair fight," Maura pondered the idea. "You wouldn't stand a chance with your broken ribs, and I don't want to hurt you…"

Barely able to suppress an annoyed groan, the detective rolled her eyes. "Would you _please_ stop it and just wait here?"

"Fine…," the blonde agreed with a playful pout.

"Thank you," Jane sighed before signaling Korsak her okay and moving further into the hall.

At the same moment, Michael Welsh finally took the stage and reached for the microphone waiting for him at his seat. When he cleared his throat and expectantly looked down at his invitees, the murmur subsided and everybody's attention turned to the podium.

"Good evening and thank you again for joining us tonight for our panel discussion on chances and challenges for businesses in and around Boston," Welsh welcomed his guests. "Before I'm going to introduce our excellent speakers, I'd like to—" he stopped mid-sentence when he spotted Jane amidst the crowd. "I'd like to ask you to, uh…"

Confused by Welsh's sudden lack of eloquence, several of his staff members glanced over their shoulders, searching for the distraction that had thrown their candidate off his train of thought. A few feet from Jane, Welsh's strategist turned around and resentfully wrinkled his forehead when he recognized the brunette. At another table a little farther away, Logan Linklater curiously scanned the hall until he spotted two uniformed officers near the entrance. Unsure what to think of this, he nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

After a few moments, while Jane was patiently waiting to make her next move, Welsh continued to stumble through his speech, trying to ignore the detective's provocative gaze. "I'd like to ask you to join me for… for a moment of silence in memory of, uh, those who died in this terrible attack earlier this week, including my… my esteemed opponent Andrew Connelly. I've always had the deepest respect for him, and… and my thoughts and prayers are with his family. So let us… let us honor those victims for a minute."

When the candidate lowered his head — not without suspiciously peeking towards the detective again — and everybody else in the hall did so as well, Jane subtly nodded at Korsak. The sergeant whipped out his cell phone and dialed a number. And then they waited and looked around.

They didn't have to wait for long.

Just seconds later, the ringing of a phone broke the silence in the hall.

Guests looked up, their faces filled with indignation about the disrespectful noise. Tense and alert, Jane, Korsak, and the other officers tried to determine the direction from which the sound of the still ringing phone was coming. When its ringtone broke the silence once again, loud and clear, in the middle of the room, all eyes turned to Logan Linklater. Pale and sweaty, the campaign manager swallowed hard and mustered an apologetic smile. "Sorry, forgot to turn off my phone…" He reached into his pocket to turn it off.

Jane took a few steps towards him and reached for her gun. "The same phone from which you called Henslow and Connelly, I assume…"

In the blink of an eye, Linklater grasped the situation. Before the detective had a chance to clear her line of fire, he seized a young campaign volunteer next to him and pulled her into a stranglehold. With his other hand, he snatched a champagne flute, smashed it against the table, and threateningly held the broken glass against the woman's neck.

"Don't you dare come closer!" he hissed at Jane, who had pulled her gun and was fiercely following Linklater's every move.

Like receding tidal waves, all the other guests around them withdrew in panic and confusion — except for the cameraman, who stood rooted to the ground and couldn't hide his euphoria at the fact that he was about to record the most pivotal moment of the mayoral race.

"You won't get out of here," Jane declared and guided Linklater's eyes to Korsak and the other officers who had begun to zero in on him.

"We'll see…," the campaign manager sneered and tightened his grip around his hostage, forcing a suppressed squeal of desperation out of the young woman.

"You hired Henslow, didn't you?" the detective tried to distract her opponent, her fingers feeling for the trigger of her gun, yearning for a chance to release a deadly bullet. "He took care of the C4, and you sent off Buccitelli with that briefcase. What did you tell him?"

"Didn't have to tell him anything," Linklater smirked sardonically while moving further backwards. "Gave him enough money to deliver it to Connelly without asking any questions. Ex-cons are so easy to work with…"

"Why the hell would you do this?" Michael Welsh suddenly yelled into his microphone from the podium after having watched the scene unfold in bewilderment.

"Why?! Because _someone_ had to keep your fucking campaign on track!" his campaign manager declared exasperatedly. "You never had what it takes to win this!"

With his mouth agape, Welsh stared at his closest confidant. "I'd rather lose than win like this!"

"Yeah, of course," Linklater laughed out loud. "That's _exactly_ why we're having this problem! You think you'd come this far without me?!"

"I… but…" the candidate tried to regain his composure. "Why would you _kill_ Connelly?"

Noticing the other cops getting closer to Linklater, Jane knew she had to keep the maniac distracted. "Because Connelly knew that you were messing around with the campaign donations…"

"That was you?!" Welsh uttered in disbelief.

"Of course, it was me! You really thought so many people were willing to support your petty campaign?!" Linklater shook his head and then pointed at the invitees in the hall, who were speechlessly watching the drama develop in front of their eyes. "Just look at these people — they're not here because you're such a nice guy! They're only interested in what you will do for them when you win the election. Without a win, you're nothing to them! Nothing!"

"You talked to Connelly when he called your headquarters, didn't you?" Jane asked, forcing Linklater to keep his eyes on her and Welsh while trying to make his way towards another door at the back of the hall. "You scheduled a phony meeting and called Connelly at the restaurant right before Buccitelli arrived with the bomb…"

Realizing Jane's strategy, Welsh tried to keep his campaign manager busy to allow the other cops to close in on him. "You killed over thirty people, Logan…"

"You should've gotten rid of that prepaid phone…," the brunette immediately forced Linklater's attention back on herself.

Unable to keep an eye on Welsh, Jane, and everybody else at the same time, Linklater spun back and forth and pulled his hostage closer in one last attempt to escape from his opponents. But it was a losing battle.

"_Nothing_ is worth killing so many people, Logan," Welsh insisted once again.

"Let her go…," Jane urged him and pointed at the teary-eyed woman in his grip.

"No…," Linklater protested but then noticed from the corner of his eyes how two cops tried to sneak behind his back.

The split second of inattention when he glanced over his shoulder and exposed his right arm was all Jane needed. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The shot echoed through the hall and Linklater dropped his champagne flute knife when the first bullet penetrated his biceps.

BANG!

Another bullet cracked his shoulder blade.

His eyes filling with panic and his white shirt instantly soaked in blood, the campaign manager staggered backwards and let go of his hostage. The young woman stumbled around, shaking and sobbing, before Maura and another staff member pulled her away and comforted her at a safe distance from her captor.

Linklater himself had dropped to his knees and derisively grinned at the gun that Jane was still pointing at his face.

Breathing at the top of her lungs, tense and thirsting for revenge, the brunette felt her fingers itch and hug the trigger of her weapon. She yearned to fire off another bullet. God, how she wanted to see that bullet burst through Linklater's skin and tear his skull apart and send him straight to hell. _Pull the damn trigger. Just do it. Do it for Frost!_

And she almost did.

If it hadn't been for the other cops who were suddenly blocking her line of fire and taking Linklater into custody, the campaign manager might not have lived to see another day.

When she finally woke from her trance and realized that her chance for revenge had passed, Jane stepped back and let her gun sink down. Subconsciously clenching her fists and still feeling the adrenaline surging through her veins, she watched how Linklater got pulled up and dragged away under the eyes of shocked invitees and one inappropriately excited cameraman.

"You made the right choice," Maura said quietly as she stepped to the brunette's side.

"I should've killed him," Jane murmured.

"No. He doesn't deserve the easy way out," the medical examiner sighed and gently tugged the detective away.

* * *

Half an hour later, hordes of media representatives had gathered outside of Welsh's campaign headquarters to report the breaking news and the latest twist in the aftermath of the _Il Camino_ bombing.

Photographers' flashlights lit up the night when several officers led a still bleeding Logan Linklater to two patrol cars that would transport him to BPD.

At the front line of the journalists reporting live from the scene, the gray-haired anchor who had been tirelessly covering the events of the week stood again with a microphone in his hand and routinely delivered his commentary to his cameraman.

"What initially appeared to be an act of revenge by a former convict has turned into a scandal that will rattle the political scene in Boston for weeks to come," the anchor reported. "According to initial comments from the Mayor's office, the election will most likely be postponed as the City needs time to investigate the full extent of the fraudulent activities in connection with the funding of Mr. Welsh's campaign."

When even more flashlights went off nearby, the anchor signaled his cameraman to keep filming and then joined a dozen other journalists as they stormed to the building and surrounded Michael Welsh on his way out.

"No comment! No comment!" he shouted at several importunate reporters who kept shoving their microphones into his face. Surrounded by some of his staff members, he forced his way towards a limousine waiting at the curb to escape from the event that had ended his mayoral bid and, most likely, his political career as a whole.

A few feet away, the Christiane Amanpour wannabe had also resumed her coverage. "At this point, we only know that Welsh's campaign manager, Logan Linklater, played a key role in the attack on the _Il Camino_ restaurant, which cost thirty-seven people their lives and left many more injured," she explained. "Hopefully, these new developments will finally shed light on the true motive behind this horrible act and allow the whole city of Boston to find closure and peace."

And while the media were still focused on Welsh's car, Jane, Maura, and Korsak seized the opportunity to leave the building mostly unnoticed and silently disappeared into the night.


	11. Epilog

_**A/N: **__Congrats, you made it to the end. Listen to "Almost Home" by Moby feat. Damien Jurado for this chapter – it'll set the mood. _

_This one's for Lee Thompson Young/Det. Frost – thanks for the giggles when you had to tie your shoes. RIP._

* * *

**Chapter 11 – Epilog**

**…**

A few days later, on a brisk but sunny Sunday morning, Maura parked her blue Prius at the curb outside of Jane's apartment building and leaned back in her seat. For several minutes, the medical examiner just sat in her car, with her eyes closed, and focused on one of her yoga breathing techniques to calm the stormy sea inside her mind. Breathing in… breathing out… in… out…

When she began to feel a certain calmness soothe her mind and body, she got out of her car, all dressed in black, and straightened her clothes before heading towards the building's front door, letting the chilly November wind dispel her woes and guide her inside.

Once upstairs, she took another deep breath until she had finally mustered enough strength to knock on Jane's door. Waiting in vain for an answer, the blonde checked her watch and eventually let herself in with her own spare key.

She had barely stepped into the apartment, when Jo Friday emerged from around the corner and cheerfully bounced around Maura's legs.

"Hey, you…," she bent down and caressed the dog's fur while letting her eyes wander over the kitchen and the living room. Judging from an almost empty cup of coffee on the couch table and the Yorkshire terrier's recently filled feeding bowl, Jane must have been up already. And it was rather unlikely that she would have gone back to sleep on a day like this.

"Jane…?" the medical examiner called into the empty apartment before proceeding to the bedroom with Jo Friday following closely on her heels.

When she reached the end of the hallway and peeked into the room, she finally found the brunette lying on her bed, still in her pajama bottoms and a tanktop, and just staring at the ceiling. The blonde paused in the doorframe and worriedly looked at Jane.

"You're not ready…," Maura finally stated the obvious for lack of anything better to say.

"I'm not coming…," Jane said quietly without averting her gaze from the ceiling.

After a moment of silence and hesitation, the medical examiner walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge next to the detective.

"I just can't…," Jane added when she felt Maura's questioning eyes rest on her.

"Everybody will be there," the blonde pointed out. "He was your partner, Jane. You should—"

"No, I mean it, Maura," the brunette quickly cut her off, her voice somber and unusually fragile. "I just… I just can't go there today…"

Unsure how to react, how to give Jane strength when she herself would have needed a strong shoulder to lean on, Maura let her eyes wander until she noticed a slightly crinkled photo on the nightstand. A faint smile playing on her lips at the recognition of the scene, she took the picture into her trembling fingers and looked at the snapshot from Frost's last birthday party when the young detective and Jane had battled each other with water guns, their shirts soaking wet and their faces filled with laughter.

With a heavy heart, the blonde let the picture sink down and turned back to the brunette next to her. "Why don't you want to go?"

Silence filled the room again until Jane finally looked at her. "Because it'll make everything real."

"It is real, whether you go there or not…," Maura sighed, trying to hold the detective's sad gaze without breaking into tears herself.

"I know… but… then it will also _feel_ real…," Jane whispered. "And I'm not ready for that…"

Fighting the lump forming in her throat, the medical examiner let her shoulders slouch and absentmindedly stared at the floor. "I'm not sure I can go there by myself," she admitted eventually. Waiting in vain for a response from the other woman, Maura looked up again, her eyes pleading and longing to cross the distance to the brunette. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

When Jane gloomily bit her lip but kept staring at the ceiling, Maura nodded quietly and turned to leave. Before she could get up, Jane held her back.

"Do you think Frost would understand?" the brunette wondered with a wavering voice, her eyes teary and begging for words of solace.

"Yes, I think he would…," the blonde assured her. And it wasn't a lie.

"What about you?" Jane asked, her voice even more desperate.

Maura paused and pondered the question. But this time, there was no easy answer.

Thus, she quickly placed a soft kiss on Jane's forehead instead and stood up. "I have to go…," she whispered and hurried out of the bedroom while her legs were still strong enough to carry her.

When her apartment door fell shut a few seconds later, Jane sat up and stared towards the empty hallway until her fingers found the photo of her and Frost again. She looked at her deceased partner, at his smile, at the light-hearted moment forever captured on the crinkled paper in her hands. And when the memories kept washing over her mind — all those things that still felt real —, she buried her head in her hands and silently cried.

* * *

The low November sun was still gracing the city of Boston with its presence when family, friends, and colleagues of Detective Barry Frost had gathered around his lily-covered coffin and the newly dug-out grave to say their last goodbyes at a placid cemetery in a southern neighborhood.

His mother, Camille, and her partner, Robin, had sat down on two white wooden chairs and were silently holding hands, while the other funeral guests had formed a circle around the grave and listened as the priest cited verses of a poem by Henry Scott-Holland.

"_Death is nothing at all… I have only slipped away… into the next room…_," he read calmly from his notes.

Towering amongst those gathered around the grave was Admiral Frost, his face grief-stricken despite the differences that had existed between him and his son.

"_I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still…,_" the priest continued.

There was also Frost's former fiancee, Anna Farrell, the young FBI agent whose career ambitions had cut short the time she had spent with her lover.

"_Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow._"

And there were Frankie and Angela, Sergeant Korsak and Lieutenant Cavanaugh, as well as Lieutenant Detective Martinez and numerous other uniformed officers who had worked with Detective Frost at one point or another.

"_Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it._"

Surrounded by other mourning guests in black and yet all by herself, Maura stood in silence, her face pale and empty, her body somehow finding the strength to stand still despite the inner turmoil tearing her apart.

"_Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner._"

When the priest gracefully folded his notes to quote the last verses from memory, Maura felt someone approach from behind and glanced to her left just as Jane stepped to her side. Wrapped in a dark coat, her hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, the detective insecurely looked at the medical examiner, searching for a beam of light to guide her through the darkness enshrouding her heart. And when apologetic coffee-brown eyes found forgiving hazel ones, relief filled both of their souls.

"_All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost… And how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."_

And as the priest continued his eulogy with words of comfort and anecdotes provided by Frost's family and friends, Jane let her eyes wander, trying to steady her breath, to stop her fingers from shaking, to accept what she couldn't change. And on this quiet November day, she found what she had been looking for.

Just one second…  
… until she realized that this was where she belonged… that these people were her family… and that she wasn't alone…

Another second…  
… to look at her mother and her brother… to remember how they had welcomed Frost with open arms… how Frankie and Frost had squabbled over a stupid action figure like brothers… all in good fun…

A third second…  
… to exchange a collegial nod with Korsak… to think back of the friendly banter between him and Frost… how he had superglued the young detective's desk drawers on his first day and how they had teased each other… but never lost their mutual respect…

A fourth second…  
… to send a condolatory smile to Camille and Robin… to chuckle inside at the memory of their get-together in the Dirty Robber after a day of softball and surprises…

A fifth second…  
… to feel Maura reach for her hand and soothe her trembling fingers… to remember fondly how Frost had bravely tried to conquer his fear of the dead… how often he had turned pale in the morgue and once even curled up on the floor… without ever throwing in the towel…

A sixth second…  
… to squeeze Maura's hand in return… to finally muster the strength to look at Frost's coffin… to truly remember and honor her partner… and the bond they had shared…

A seventh second…  
… to let her hand and Maura's become one… to allow a single tear to roll freely down her cheek without wiping it off or turning away… to let peace fill her heart… and to move on.

Just another seven seconds. And yet, nothing would ever be the same.

Because seven seconds is all it takes to change a life. To help you find your way. To finally guide you home.

..

END

* * *

_**Again, thanks for reading. Not sure if you "get" the ending, but to me that's the only way how to say goodbye to Frost/LTY. If you agree, let the cast/crew know. ;-)**_

_**So, should I write some real Rizzles next?**_

_Thing is, I won't write smut without plot or anything like that. It's just not my style and I see the characters more like soul mates. But I also want to try something new and more challenging in each story. I guess the logical next step after this ending would be to bring them a little closer. I got an idea but not sure if there's enough interest. It would focus on Jane being forced (by the bad guy in the story) to do something really bad to Maura, like really bad. Not "sorry, I'll marry Casey" bad, but more like "sorry, this might kill you" bad. Literally. _

_Any interest? Since these fics are just for fun and I have other writing projects to take care of, I'll only do this one if it sounds like something you want to read… Or got any other challenges?_


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